The poet is no liar. No!
Though truth may not be told
By him, just so, and so,—
By weight, and measure, or the cold
And soulless numbers—
By facts, so called, that cloy and cumber
The Psyche in its flight
Into that heavenly light
Of things, which children know,—
And poets see and feel
In beauty, which is truth,
Whose life-inspiring glow
Sometimes doth steal
Upon him, as does love upon the youth,
And moves his heart to song—
The music of his being,
Whose notes are pure and strong,
While he is seeing
God’s Seraphims, and all
The earth replete with glory,—
And hears the call
From ages hoary
To his own day, and times to be—
The voice of God;
Truth-teller he,
Despite the rod
Of proud custodians
Of labelled “scientific facts” sans
Poetry,—
Before whom he refuses to bend knee;—
Truth-teller he, because to him was given
The vision to behold—the glory-trail of heaven,
In little things and great,
In life, and death, and destiny, and fate.