To an Aeolian
Harp1
The winds have grown articulate in thee, And voiced again the wail2 of ancient woe3 That smote4 upon the winds of long ago: The cries of Trojan women as they flee, The quivering moan of pale Andromache, Now lifted loud with pain and now brought low. It is the soul of sorrow that we know, As in a shell the soul of all the sea. So sometimes in the compass of a song, Unknown to him who sings, thro' lips that live, The voiceless dead of long-forgotten lands Proclaim to us their heaviness and wrong In sweeping5 sadness of the winds that give Thy strings6 no rest from weariless wild hands.