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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=381351" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>L'envoy</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=381351" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Now in a thought, now in a shadowed word, <br>Now in a voice that thrills eternity, <br>Ever there comes an onward phrase to me <br>Of some transcendent music I have heard; <br>No piteous thing by soft hands dulcimered,<br>No trumpet crash of blood-sick victory, <br>But a glad strain of some vast harmony <br>That no brief mortal touch has ever stirred. <br>There is no music in the world like this, <br>No character wherewith to set it down,<br>No kind of instrument to make it sing. <br>No kind of instrument? Ah, yes, there is; <br>And after time and place are overthrown, <br>God’s touch will keep its one chord quivering.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Edwin+Arlington+Robinson">Edwin Arlington Robinson</a></strong></div>

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