I heard the sound of flutes And hoarse, sonorous viols, in accord With happy human voices,--and one voice-- A woman's or an angel's--that compelled My feet to swift approach. A thread of gold, Through all the web of sound, I followed it Till, by the stress of some strange sympathy, And by no act of will, I joined my voice To that one voice of melody, and sang. The heart is wiser than the intellect, And works with swifter hands and surer feet Toward wise conclusions. So, without resort To reason, in my heart I knew that she Who sang had suffered--knew that she had grieved, Had hungered, struggled, kissed the cheek of death, And ranged the scale of passions till her soul Was deep, and wide, and soft with sympathy;-- Nay, more than this: that she had found at last Peace like a river, on whose waveless tide She floated while she sang. This was the key That loosed my prisoned voice, and filled my eyes With tender tears, and touched to life again My better nature. When the choral closed, And the last chord in silence lapsed away, I raised my eyes, and, nodding to the beck Of the old, slippered sexton, I went in,-- Not (shall it be confessed?) to find the God At whose plain altar bowed the rural throng; But, through a voice, to follow to its source The influence that moved me. I was late; And many eyes looked up as I advanced Through the broad aisle, and took a seat that turned My face to all the faces in the house. I scanned the simpering girls within the choir, But found not what I sought; and then my eyes With rambling inquisition swept the pews, Pausing at every maiden face in vain. One head, that crowned a tall and slender form, Was bowed with reverent grace upon the rail Before her; and, although I caught no glimpse Of her sweet face, I knew such face was there, And there the voice.