THE POET.I wastold yesterday by one with wiseSolemn aspect, and wrinkles 'bout his eyes,That poetry is an idle trade, alack!He had a good black coat upon his back,And deemed himself respectable,—he said, too,That he who verses writes will never doWell in the world, that his character is gone,And he himself no better than a drone.So having said he walked away well pleased;—Now that's a man, I say, whose mind's diseased.Has he in summer ever watched a roseBurst into blossoming, and as it growsMore and more beautiful, sweeten all the airWith its rich perfume,—poetry was there.A sunbeam thrown acrossThe clouds, that makes them glowWith light ineffableTo eyes from earth below;A small wave of the seaWhen the vast ocean waitsThe coming of the storm,That slightly agitatesIts surface passing,—asWhen of danger nearFirst made aware, the rousedLion, though not in fearLooks up, the watchfire thenKindling in his eye,His mane scarcely as yetMoved, nor erected highHis head, but his proud glanceCircling keen, rapid, stern,—There poetry is seenBy one that can discern.A priest of Nature's own,One she herself ordains,The poet walks in brightness,And still new blessings gains.The sky above hath in itMore beauty to his sight,Than to the world it shinesIn its canopy of light.The flowers his kindred areThat grow in fields remote;They waken in his heartThe pure wellsprings of thought:They speak to him aloneWith low and whispering voice,Like gentle maiden toThe lover of her choice.And none but he can tellWhat is it that they say,For a most sweet communionIs their's to cheer his way.The ocean in its vastness,He loves, too, as he seesIt driven by the tempest,Or slumbering in the breeze.It brings into his visionThe coming of that day,When Time within EternityShall merge itself away.The forest trees antiqueAre his familiar friends,With the spirit of the woodsHis own for ever blends:And voices of the past,With fancies of old times,Do their murmurings recallWhich he fondly puts in rhymes.Echoes of distant landsBeyond the western sea,Or in the burning east,Where'er they chance to be,Are brought to him at nightAnd cheer his spirit then,When sleep forsakes the eyesOf care-worn worldly men.And ever for his kindDoth his spirit warmly yearn,And his verses speak of thingsWhich only he can learn.The human heart, and allIts feelings, hopes and fears,All that it fondly loves,All that it blindly fears,Its sympathies, affections,Its duties and desires,All that its doubts foreshadow,All that its pride inspires,Its sorrows and its faintings,Its buoyancy and glee,Its passions and its promptings,Its truth and constancy;He knows, and can depicture,For of the human mindHe is the chosen minister,The prophet of his kind.Such, yea and more, the poet is,Had he had a choiceOf destinies, if in his fateHad been heard his voice;It might have been so that he hadBeen a worldling born,And looked solemn like his scorners,And had gravely wornA black coat too, of fashion's cut,And smoothed trim his beard,And shook his head wisely, and beenSententious, and fearedThe world's opinion, and condemnedPoetry as idle,But in his vocation he canNe'er his feelings bridle.His thoughts are in a stronger handThan his own, his mindHas thinks passing in it still, thatCannot be confined:Like the birds flying as they listThrough the summer air,Or the clouds driven by the breezeFloating everywhere.
I wastold yesterday by one with wiseSolemn aspect, and wrinkles 'bout his eyes,That poetry is an idle trade, alack!He had a good black coat upon his back,And deemed himself respectable,—he said, too,That he who verses writes will never doWell in the world, that his character is gone,And he himself no better than a drone.So having said he walked away well pleased;—Now that's a man, I say, whose mind's diseased.Has he in summer ever watched a roseBurst into blossoming, and as it growsMore and more beautiful, sweeten all the airWith its rich perfume,—poetry was there.A sunbeam thrown acrossThe clouds, that makes them glowWith light ineffableTo eyes from earth below;A small wave of the seaWhen the vast ocean waitsThe coming of the storm,That slightly agitatesIts surface passing,—asWhen of danger nearFirst made aware, the rousedLion, though not in fearLooks up, the watchfire thenKindling in his eye,His mane scarcely as yetMoved, nor erected highHis head, but his proud glanceCircling keen, rapid, stern,—There poetry is seenBy one that can discern.A priest of Nature's own,One she herself ordains,The poet walks in brightness,And still new blessings gains.The sky above hath in itMore beauty to his sight,Than to the world it shinesIn its canopy of light.The flowers his kindred areThat grow in fields remote;They waken in his heartThe pure wellsprings of thought:They speak to him aloneWith low and whispering voice,Like gentle maiden toThe lover of her choice.And none but he can tellWhat is it that they say,For a most sweet communionIs their's to cheer his way.The ocean in its vastness,He loves, too, as he seesIt driven by the tempest,Or slumbering in the breeze.It brings into his visionThe coming of that day,When Time within EternityShall merge itself away.The forest trees antiqueAre his familiar friends,With the spirit of the woodsHis own for ever blends:And voices of the past,With fancies of old times,Do their murmurings recallWhich he fondly puts in rhymes.Echoes of distant landsBeyond the western sea,Or in the burning east,Where'er they chance to be,Are brought to him at nightAnd cheer his spirit then,When sleep forsakes the eyesOf care-worn worldly men.And ever for his kindDoth his spirit warmly yearn,And his verses speak of thingsWhich only he can learn.The human heart, and allIts feelings, hopes and fears,All that it fondly loves,All that it blindly fears,Its sympathies, affections,Its duties and desires,All that its doubts foreshadow,All that its pride inspires,Its sorrows and its faintings,Its buoyancy and glee,Its passions and its promptings,Its truth and constancy;He knows, and can depicture,For of the human mindHe is the chosen minister,The prophet of his kind.Such, yea and more, the poet is,Had he had a choiceOf destinies, if in his fateHad been heard his voice;It might have been so that he hadBeen a worldling born,And looked solemn like his scorners,And had gravely wornA black coat too, of fashion's cut,And smoothed trim his beard,And shook his head wisely, and beenSententious, and fearedThe world's opinion, and condemnedPoetry as idle,But in his vocation he canNe'er his feelings bridle.His thoughts are in a stronger handThan his own, his mindHas thinks passing in it still, thatCannot be confined:Like the birds flying as they listThrough the summer air,Or the clouds driven by the breezeFloating everywhere.
I wastold yesterday by one with wiseSolemn aspect, and wrinkles 'bout his eyes,That poetry is an idle trade, alack!He had a good black coat upon his back,And deemed himself respectable,—he said, too,That he who verses writes will never doWell in the world, that his character is gone,And he himself no better than a drone.So having said he walked away well pleased;—Now that's a man, I say, whose mind's diseased.Has he in summer ever watched a roseBurst into blossoming, and as it growsMore and more beautiful, sweeten all the airWith its rich perfume,—poetry was there.A sunbeam thrown acrossThe clouds, that makes them glowWith light ineffableTo eyes from earth below;A small wave of the seaWhen the vast ocean waitsThe coming of the storm,That slightly agitatesIts surface passing,—asWhen of danger nearFirst made aware, the rousedLion, though not in fearLooks up, the watchfire thenKindling in his eye,His mane scarcely as yetMoved, nor erected highHis head, but his proud glanceCircling keen, rapid, stern,—There poetry is seenBy one that can discern.A priest of Nature's own,One she herself ordains,The poet walks in brightness,And still new blessings gains.The sky above hath in itMore beauty to his sight,Than to the world it shinesIn its canopy of light.The flowers his kindred areThat grow in fields remote;They waken in his heartThe pure wellsprings of thought:They speak to him aloneWith low and whispering voice,Like gentle maiden toThe lover of her choice.And none but he can tellWhat is it that they say,For a most sweet communionIs their's to cheer his way.The ocean in its vastness,He loves, too, as he seesIt driven by the tempest,Or slumbering in the breeze.It brings into his visionThe coming of that day,When Time within EternityShall merge itself away.The forest trees antiqueAre his familiar friends,With the spirit of the woodsHis own for ever blends:And voices of the past,With fancies of old times,Do their murmurings recallWhich he fondly puts in rhymes.Echoes of distant landsBeyond the western sea,Or in the burning east,Where'er they chance to be,Are brought to him at nightAnd cheer his spirit then,When sleep forsakes the eyesOf care-worn worldly men.And ever for his kindDoth his spirit warmly yearn,And his verses speak of thingsWhich only he can learn.The human heart, and allIts feelings, hopes and fears,All that it fondly loves,All that it blindly fears,Its sympathies, affections,Its duties and desires,All that its doubts foreshadow,All that its pride inspires,Its sorrows and its faintings,Its buoyancy and glee,Its passions and its promptings,Its truth and constancy;He knows, and can depicture,For of the human mindHe is the chosen minister,The prophet of his kind.Such, yea and more, the poet is,Had he had a choiceOf destinies, if in his fateHad been heard his voice;It might have been so that he hadBeen a worldling born,And looked solemn like his scorners,And had gravely wornA black coat too, of fashion's cut,And smoothed trim his beard,And shook his head wisely, and beenSententious, and fearedThe world's opinion, and condemnedPoetry as idle,But in his vocation he canNe'er his feelings bridle.His thoughts are in a stronger handThan his own, his mindHas thinks passing in it still, thatCannot be confined:Like the birds flying as they listThrough the summer air,Or the clouds driven by the breezeFloating everywhere.
I wastold yesterday by one with wiseSolemn aspect, and wrinkles 'bout his eyes,That poetry is an idle trade, alack!He had a good black coat upon his back,And deemed himself respectable,—he said, too,That he who verses writes will never doWell in the world, that his character is gone,And he himself no better than a drone.So having said he walked away well pleased;—Now that's a man, I say, whose mind's diseased.Has he in summer ever watched a roseBurst into blossoming, and as it growsMore and more beautiful, sweeten all the airWith its rich perfume,—poetry was there.
I wastold yesterday by one with wise
Solemn aspect, and wrinkles 'bout his eyes,
That poetry is an idle trade, alack!
He had a good black coat upon his back,
And deemed himself respectable,—he said, too,
That he who verses writes will never do
Well in the world, that his character is gone,
And he himself no better than a drone.
So having said he walked away well pleased;—
Now that's a man, I say, whose mind's diseased.
Has he in summer ever watched a rose
Burst into blossoming, and as it grows
More and more beautiful, sweeten all the air
With its rich perfume,—poetry was there.
A sunbeam thrown acrossThe clouds, that makes them glowWith light ineffableTo eyes from earth below;A small wave of the seaWhen the vast ocean waitsThe coming of the storm,That slightly agitatesIts surface passing,—asWhen of danger nearFirst made aware, the rousedLion, though not in fearLooks up, the watchfire thenKindling in his eye,His mane scarcely as yetMoved, nor erected highHis head, but his proud glanceCircling keen, rapid, stern,—There poetry is seenBy one that can discern.
A sunbeam thrown across
The clouds, that makes them glow
With light ineffable
To eyes from earth below;
A small wave of the sea
When the vast ocean waits
The coming of the storm,
That slightly agitates
Its surface passing,—as
When of danger near
First made aware, the roused
Lion, though not in fear
Looks up, the watchfire then
Kindling in his eye,
His mane scarcely as yet
Moved, nor erected high
His head, but his proud glance
Circling keen, rapid, stern,—
There poetry is seen
By one that can discern.
A priest of Nature's own,One she herself ordains,The poet walks in brightness,And still new blessings gains.The sky above hath in itMore beauty to his sight,Than to the world it shinesIn its canopy of light.
A priest of Nature's own,
One she herself ordains,
The poet walks in brightness,
And still new blessings gains.
The sky above hath in it
More beauty to his sight,
Than to the world it shines
In its canopy of light.
The flowers his kindred areThat grow in fields remote;They waken in his heartThe pure wellsprings of thought:They speak to him aloneWith low and whispering voice,Like gentle maiden toThe lover of her choice.
The flowers his kindred are
That grow in fields remote;
They waken in his heart
The pure wellsprings of thought:
They speak to him alone
With low and whispering voice,
Like gentle maiden to
The lover of her choice.
And none but he can tellWhat is it that they say,For a most sweet communionIs their's to cheer his way.The ocean in its vastness,He loves, too, as he seesIt driven by the tempest,Or slumbering in the breeze.It brings into his visionThe coming of that day,When Time within EternityShall merge itself away.
And none but he can tell
What is it that they say,
For a most sweet communion
Is their's to cheer his way.
The ocean in its vastness,
He loves, too, as he sees
It driven by the tempest,
Or slumbering in the breeze.
It brings into his vision
The coming of that day,
When Time within Eternity
Shall merge itself away.
The forest trees antiqueAre his familiar friends,With the spirit of the woodsHis own for ever blends:And voices of the past,With fancies of old times,Do their murmurings recallWhich he fondly puts in rhymes.
The forest trees antique
Are his familiar friends,
With the spirit of the woods
His own for ever blends:
And voices of the past,
With fancies of old times,
Do their murmurings recall
Which he fondly puts in rhymes.
Echoes of distant landsBeyond the western sea,Or in the burning east,Where'er they chance to be,Are brought to him at nightAnd cheer his spirit then,When sleep forsakes the eyesOf care-worn worldly men.And ever for his kindDoth his spirit warmly yearn,And his verses speak of thingsWhich only he can learn.
Echoes of distant lands
Beyond the western sea,
Or in the burning east,
Where'er they chance to be,
Are brought to him at night
And cheer his spirit then,
When sleep forsakes the eyes
Of care-worn worldly men.
And ever for his kind
Doth his spirit warmly yearn,
And his verses speak of things
Which only he can learn.
The human heart, and allIts feelings, hopes and fears,All that it fondly loves,All that it blindly fears,Its sympathies, affections,Its duties and desires,All that its doubts foreshadow,All that its pride inspires,
The human heart, and all
Its feelings, hopes and fears,
All that it fondly loves,
All that it blindly fears,
Its sympathies, affections,
Its duties and desires,
All that its doubts foreshadow,
All that its pride inspires,
Its sorrows and its faintings,Its buoyancy and glee,Its passions and its promptings,Its truth and constancy;He knows, and can depicture,For of the human mindHe is the chosen minister,The prophet of his kind.
Its sorrows and its faintings,
Its buoyancy and glee,
Its passions and its promptings,
Its truth and constancy;
He knows, and can depicture,
For of the human mind
He is the chosen minister,
The prophet of his kind.
Such, yea and more, the poet is,Had he had a choiceOf destinies, if in his fateHad been heard his voice;It might have been so that he hadBeen a worldling born,And looked solemn like his scorners,And had gravely wornA black coat too, of fashion's cut,And smoothed trim his beard,And shook his head wisely, and beenSententious, and fearedThe world's opinion, and condemnedPoetry as idle,But in his vocation he canNe'er his feelings bridle.His thoughts are in a stronger handThan his own, his mindHas thinks passing in it still, thatCannot be confined:Like the birds flying as they listThrough the summer air,Or the clouds driven by the breezeFloating everywhere.
Such, yea and more, the poet is,
Had he had a choice
Of destinies, if in his fate
Had been heard his voice;
It might have been so that he had
Been a worldling born,
And looked solemn like his scorners,
And had gravely worn
A black coat too, of fashion's cut,
And smoothed trim his beard,
And shook his head wisely, and been
Sententious, and feared
The world's opinion, and condemned
Poetry as idle,
But in his vocation he can
Ne'er his feelings bridle.
His thoughts are in a stronger hand
Than his own, his mind
Has thinks passing in it still, that
Cannot be confined:
Like the birds flying as they list
Through the summer air,
Or the clouds driven by the breeze
Floating everywhere.