 | Poems by Julia C. R. Dorr |  |
241
THE SONNET
I. TO A CRITIC
“It is but cunning artifice,” you say?“To it no throb of nature answereth?
It hath no living pulse, no vital breath,
This puppet, fashioned in an elder day,
Through whose strait lips no heart can cry or pray?”
O deaf and blind of soul, these words that saith!
If that thine ear is dull, what hindereth
That quicker ears should hear the bugles play
And the trump call to battle? Since the stars
First sang together, and the exulting skies
Thrilled to their music, earth hath never heard,
Above the tumult of her worldly jars,
Or loftier songs or prayers than those that rise
Where the high sonnet soareth like a bird!
II. TO A POET
Thou who wouldst wake the sonnet's silver lyre,Make thine hands clean! Then, as on eagles' wings,
Above the soiling touch of sordid things,
Bid thy soul soar till, mounting high and higher,
It feels the glow of pure celestial fire,
Bathes in clear light, and hears the song that rings
Through heaven's high arches when some angel brings
Gifts to the Throne, on wings that never tire!
242
Yet all unmeet for dance or roundelay,
Or idle love that fadeth like a flower.
It is the voice of hearts that strongly beat,
The cry of souls that grandly love and pray,
The trumpet-peal that thrills the battle-hour!
| Poems by Julia C. R. Dorr | |