IV

There is one source alone which can supply New life and impulse. ’Tis a voice that rolls Half inarticulate in English souls, From field and mine and factory, where they ply The single talent Fate did not deny, Their labour. Now they hear upon the shoals Of a sad life that there are other goals To man’s existence than they yet descry; And, scarcely yet discerned, they deeply feel A presence over them, a haunting sense Of music in the world, whose echoes steal Unto them from the spheres, where in the immense Circle of night and day the planets keep Measure and watch, while mortals toil and weep.