With mingled music of delight and grief,
  With songs of love, and bitter cries of hate,
  With hymns of faith, and dirges of despair,
  And murmurs deeper and more vague than all,—­
  Thoughts that are born and die without a name,
  Or rather, never die, but haunt the soul,
  With sad persistence, till a name is given. 
  These Vera heard, at first with mind perplexed
  And half-benumbed by the disordered sound. 
  But soon a clearer sense began to pierce
  The cloudy turmoil with discerning power. 
  She learned to know the tones of human thought
  As plainly as she knew the tones of speech. 
  She could divide the evil from the good,
  Interpreting the language of the mind,
  And tracing every feeling like a thread
  Within the mystic web the passions weave
  From heart to heart around the living world.

  But when at last the Master’s second gift
  Was perfected within her, and she heard
  And understood the secret thoughts of men,
  A sadness fell upon her, and the load
  Of insupportable knowledge pressed her down
  With weary wishes to know more, or less. 
  For all she knew was like a broken word
  Inscribed upon the fragment of a ring;
  And all she heard was like a broken strain
  Preluding music that is never played.

  Then she remembered in her sad unrest
  The Master’s parting word,—­“a path to peace,”—­
  And turned again to seek him with her grief. 
  She found him in a hollow of the hills,
  Beside a little spring that issued forth
  Beneath the rocks and filled a mossy cup
  With never-failing water.  There he sat,
  With waiting looks that welcomed her afar. 
  “I know that thou hast heard, my child,” he said,
  “For all the wonder of the world of sound
  Is written in thy face.  But hast thou heard,
  Among the many voices, one of peace? 
  And is thy heart that hears the secret thoughts,
  The hidden wishes and desires of men,
  Content with hearing?  Art thou satisfied?”
  “Nay, Master,” she replied, “thou knowest well
  That I am not at rest, nor have I heard
  The voice of perfect peace; but what I hear
  Brings me disquiet and a troubled mind. 
  The evil voices in the souls of men,
  Voices of rage and cruelty and fear
  Have not dismayed me; for I have believed
  The voices of the good, the kind, the true,
  Are more in number and excel in strength. 
  There is more love than hate, more hope than fear,
  In the deep throbbing of the human heart. 
  But while I listen to the troubled sound,
  One thing torments me, and destroys my rest
  And presses me with dull, unceasing pain. 
  For out of all the minds of all mankind,
  There rises evermore a questioning voice
  That asks the meaning of this mighty world
  And finds no answer,—­asks, and asks again,
  With patient pleading or with wild complaint,