| Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869–1935). Collected Poems. 1921. |
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| II. The Children of the Night |
| 45. L’envoy |
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| NOW in a thought, now in a shadowed word, | |
| Now in a voice that thrills eternity, | |
| Ever there comes an onward phrase to me | |
| Of some transcendent music I have heard; | |
| No piteous thing by soft hands dulcimered, | 5 |
| No trumpet crash of blood-sick victory, | |
| But a glad strain of some vast harmony | |
| That no brief mortal touch has ever stirred. | |
| There is no music in the world like this, | |
| No character wherewith to set it down, | 10 |
| No kind of instrument to make it sing. | |
| No kind of instrument? Ah, yes, there is; | |
| And after time and place are overthrown, | |
| God’s touch will keep its one chord quivering. | |
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