There is in souls a sympathy with sounds: And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased With melting airs, or martial, brisk or grave; Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies.
Then liberty, like day, Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from Heaven Fires all the faculties with glorious joy.
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss.
There is in souls a sympathy with sounds.
The dogs did bark, the children screamed, Up flew the windows all; And every soul bawled out, Well done! As loud as he could bawl.
In man or woman, but far most in man, And most of all in man that ministers, And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn: Object of my implacable disgust.
My soul is sick with every day's report of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.
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