  The budding flower that wakes at dewy morn Attains perfection through the sun-swept day, And poets, to life’s highest mission born, By slow unfolding reach the perfect lay. And like the harp, attuned to every breeze, That in the open casement sighs or sings, The poet soul is void of melodies Till unseen spirit fingers sweep the strings. Life, the magician, with his subtle powers, Death, the dark helmsman over seas unknown, Nature, all-mother, and the teaching hours Through him their grand, mysterious chants intone. And oft his numbers falter, and his song In discord breaks, ere he can hymn again The anthems of the wondrous spirit throng, And voice strange thoughts beyond our mortal ken. And oft the world and the world’s sins immesh His soul, which still the pitying spirits calm; And in the warfare between soul and flesh His heart oft rises to the noblest psalm. But should he cease to wage the upward strife, Or thrall himself a slave to evil’s power, Too proud the Muse to bless a craven life, Too pure, a sinful heart with song to dower. For the true poet, throwing down his gage To fate, fights upwards far beyond life’s mist, And with the broadened vision of the sage Beholds all earth by hope’s warm sungleams kissed. He learns that all who would be truly great Mix with the battling world, nor shirk their part, But take such trials as are given by Fate And set them to sweet music by their art. He only is a poet who can find In sorrow, happiness, in darkness, light, Love everywhere, and lead his fellow kind By flowery paths towards life’s sunny height. |
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