The Threads Our Hands In Blindness Spin No Self-Determined Plan Weaves In; The Shuttle Of The Unseen Powers Works Out A Pattern Not As Ours. Ah! Small The Choice Of Him Who Sings What Sound Shall Leave The Smitten Strings; Fate Holds And Guides The Hand Of Art; The Singer'S Is The Servant'S Part. The Wind-Harp Chooses Not The Tone That Through Its Trembling Threads Is Blown; The Patient Organ Cannot Guess What Hand Its Passive Keys Shall Press. Through Wish, Resolve, And Act, Our Will Is Moved By Undreamed Forces Still; And No Man Measures In Advance His Strength With Untried Circumstance. As Streams Take Hue From Shade And Sun, As Runs The Life The Song Must Run; But, Glad Or Sad, To His Good End God Grant The Varying Notes May Tend