SARA JEANETTE DUNCAN COTES
O VERY, very far from our dull earth,The land where poets spring to glorious birth.Thrice blessed land, where brood thrice happy skies,Where he increaseth joy who groweth wise;Where truth is not too beautiful to see,Action is music, life a harmony.There dwells the poet, till some luckless dayPrisons his spirit in our coarser clay,And in our dull and dusty commonplaceHe loses memory of his name and race,—Till some bird twitters from a wayside thorn,The language of the land where he was born;Or west winds, whispering to the tall pine trees,Waken his soul to wonder; or he seesIn some first fairness when the day is new,In some dear dimness i' the time o' the dew,A loveliness that steals about his heart,And lays soft fingers on dumb chords that start.Then he uprises joyously and bindsHis poet's robes upon him, yea, he findsThis drear existence a most glorious thingAnd sings because he cannot choose but sing.
O VERY, very far from our dull earth,The land where poets spring to glorious birth.Thrice blessed land, where brood thrice happy skies,Where he increaseth joy who groweth wise;Where truth is not too beautiful to see,Action is music, life a harmony.There dwells the poet, till some luckless dayPrisons his spirit in our coarser clay,And in our dull and dusty commonplaceHe loses memory of his name and race,—Till some bird twitters from a wayside thorn,The language of the land where he was born;Or west winds, whispering to the tall pine trees,Waken his soul to wonder; or he seesIn some first fairness when the day is new,In some dear dimness i' the time o' the dew,A loveliness that steals about his heart,And lays soft fingers on dumb chords that start.Then he uprises joyously and bindsHis poet's robes upon him, yea, he findsThis drear existence a most glorious thingAnd sings because he cannot choose but sing.
O VERY, very far from our dull earth,The land where poets spring to glorious birth.Thrice blessed land, where brood thrice happy skies,Where he increaseth joy who groweth wise;Where truth is not too beautiful to see,Action is music, life a harmony.There dwells the poet, till some luckless dayPrisons his spirit in our coarser clay,And in our dull and dusty commonplaceHe loses memory of his name and race,—Till some bird twitters from a wayside thorn,The language of the land where he was born;Or west winds, whispering to the tall pine trees,Waken his soul to wonder; or he seesIn some first fairness when the day is new,In some dear dimness i' the time o' the dew,A loveliness that steals about his heart,And lays soft fingers on dumb chords that start.
O VERY, very far from our dull earth,
The land where poets spring to glorious birth.
Thrice blessed land, where brood thrice happy skies,
Where he increaseth joy who groweth wise;
Where truth is not too beautiful to see,
Action is music, life a harmony.
There dwells the poet, till some luckless day
Prisons his spirit in our coarser clay,
And in our dull and dusty commonplace
He loses memory of his name and race,—
Till some bird twitters from a wayside thorn,
The language of the land where he was born;
Or west winds, whispering to the tall pine trees,
Waken his soul to wonder; or he sees
In some first fairness when the day is new,
In some dear dimness i' the time o' the dew,
A loveliness that steals about his heart,
And lays soft fingers on dumb chords that start.
Then he uprises joyously and bindsHis poet's robes upon him, yea, he findsThis drear existence a most glorious thingAnd sings because he cannot choose but sing.
Then he uprises joyously and binds
His poet's robes upon him, yea, he finds
This drear existence a most glorious thing
And sings because he cannot choose but sing.