  Song, they say, should be a king, Crowned and throned by lightning-legions Only they may dare to sing Who can hear their voices ring Through the echoing thunder-regions. Yet, below the mountain's crest, Chime the valley-bells to heaven; If we may not grasp the best, Deeper, closer, be our quest For the good that Fate has given. Parching in its fever pain, Many a tortured life is thirsting For a cooling draught to drain, Though it flash no purple vein From the mellow grape-heart bursting. Must our sun-struck gaze despise Starry isles in light embosomed? Must we close our scornful eyes Where the valley lily lies, Just because the rose has blossomed? Though the lark, God's perfect strain, Steep his song in sunlit splendor; Though the nightingale's sweet pain With divine despair, enchain Dew-soft darks in silence tender; Not the less, from Song's excess, Sings the blackbird late and early: Nor the bobolink's trill the less Laughs for very happiness, Gurgling through its gateways pearly. Though we reach not heavenly heights, Where the sun-crowned souls sit peerless, Let us wing our farthest flights Underneath the lower lights;— Soar and sing, unfettered, fearless— Sings as bubbling water flows— Sing as smiles the summer sunny. Royal is the perfect rose, Yet, from many a bud that blows, Bees may drain a drop of honey. |
|
