  Tho' all mayn't know it, He thought to shape his writings into verse, He pruned them down to language fixed and terse, But finding that would give his tricks no play, Spurned his reserve, and tried another way. This time he dressed the naked words with care, Trimmed them with adjectives and adverbs fair, And studying every law of form and rhyme, Pieced up his metre into studious time. But still, whatever medium he chose, His work remained poor, tortured, unsexed prose. One dew-drenched eve, whilst pondering in the vale He felt the leaves a-quiver in the dale— Stooping, he caught a whisper from the sky That slipped from out the twilight whimsically. Its tender sorrow touched him as it fell, Quickened his fancies, stirred his heart as well, In reverent awe he heard its mystic call, A heaven-born glory permeating all. He did not dare to pin that whisper down To words so peacocked in a flaunting gown, The forms of metre he had conned so well Were all inadequate that sigh to tell. No further use that artificial code, Those simpered rhymes, his petty bandbox mode Of tight-packed trumpery. No need to pace The solemn pavements of the commonplace. Each little trick, each fantasy of art Were stones that blocked th' outpourings of his heart. He looked beyond the great inrushing sea, Seeing at last the hidden things that be! And of the wave he learnt a cadence sweet, Strong as its life, a lilt of rippling feet, Whilst from the wind that swept the answering trees He culled the moaning rhythm of the breeze. He weaved that whisper of the twilight sky Into a poem, soft with melody, It thrilled the soul in motion strong and free, Wild as the wave, a break of ecstasy. It kissed the borderland 'twixt heaven and earth, Sweet in its passion, holy in its mirth— And lo! a light gleamed through each noble line, The wind crooned softly, starways seemed to shine— That poem—was divine. |
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