EXPERIENCE, like a pale musician, holds br A dulcimer of patience in his hand, br Whence harmonies, we cannot understand, br Of God; will in his worlds, the strain unfolds br In sad-perplexed minors: deathly colds br Fall on us while we hear, and countermand br Our sanguine heart back from the fancyland br With nightingales in visionary wolds. br We murmur ' Where is any certain tune br Or measured music in such notes as these ? ' br But angels, leaning from the golden seat, br Are not so minded their fine ear hath won br The issue of completed cadences, br And, smiling down the stars, they whisper-- br SWEET.