All around her, the speaker hears a fierce, joyful wrestling of sound—a silver strife that fills the crowded air and lifts her out of ordinary life. It’s not any music made by birds or brass bands or choirs; it’s more primal, more vast, as if the morning stars themselves were singing the universe into being. She feels it as a “New Life” breaking over the town before dawn, a transport that catches her walking in the early dark. The poem then tries on different names: maybe it’s the music of the spheres, or the bright assembly of the dead, or a taste of the worship we’ll join in heaven. The mood is rapt and playfully speculative, full of the joy that comes from straining to name something that hovers just beyond words—a sound that seems to pour in from eternity itself, leaving the speaker dazzled and guessing.
Musicians wrestle everywhere — Summary
Musicians wrestle everywhere -- All day -- among the crowded air I hear the silver strife -- And -- walking -- long before the morn -- Such transport breaks upon the town I think it that "New Life"!
If is not Bird -- it has no nest -- Nor "Band" -- in brass and scarlet -- drest -- Nor Tamborin -- nor Man -- It is not Hymn from pulpit read -- The "Morning Stars" the Treble led On Time's first Afternoon!
Some -- say -- it is "the Spheres" -- at play! Some say that bright Majority Of vanished Dames -- and Men! Some -- think it service in the place Where we -- with late -- celestial face -- Please God -- shall Ascertain!