If any rock thrills yet with that great strain
We did not hear, and shall not hear, again ;
If any olive-leaf at Bethlehem
Lisps still one syllable vouchsafed to them ;

What was it that ye heard ?
the wind of Night Playing in cheating tones, with touches light.

If some stream, conscious still — some breeze — be stirre
With echo of the immortal words ye heard. Amid the palm-plumes ?
Or, one stop outblown Of planetary music, so far flown Earthwards,
that to those innocent ears 'twas brouglit

Which bent the mighty measure to their thought ?
Or, haply, from breast-shaped Beth Haccarem, The hill of Herod, some waft sent to them