  The poet is forever young And speaks the one immortal tongue. To him the wonder never dies, For youth is looking through his eyes. Pale listener at the heart of things, He hears the voices and the wings: He hears the skylark overhead— Hears the far footfalls of the dead. When the swift Muses seize their child, Then God has gladness rich and wild; For when the bard is caught and hurled, A splendor breaks across the world. His song distils a saving power From foot-worn stone, from wayside flower. He knows the gospel of the trees, The whispered message of the seas; A power to lift the human load; Sees, in some dead leaf dried and curled, The deeper meaning of the world; Hears through the roar of mortal things The God’s immortal whisperings; Sees the world-wonder rise and fall, And knows that Beauty made it all. He walks the circle of the sun, And sees the bright Powers laugh and run. He feels the motion of the sphere, And builds his song in sacred fear. He finds the faithful witness hid In poppy-head and Pyramid. The Golden Heaven or the Pit— He shakes the music out of it. All things yield up their souls to him From dateless dust to seraphim.
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