 | Carol and Cadence |  |
CROSS-PURPOSES.
The wind, where it listeth, still bloweth
Nor recketh of you or of me;
The tide, when its season is, floweth;
Its voice is the voice of the sea.
Nor recketh of you or of me;
The tide, when its season is, floweth;
Its voice is the voice of the sea.
The bird, in its nesting-time, singeth,
For song is the voice of its soul;
The thought, where it willeth, still wingeth,
Uncareful of aught but its goal.
For song is the voice of its soul;
The thought, where it willeth, still wingeth,
Uncareful of aught but its goal.
The earth bears its fruits in their season,
For all that the critics may say,
Nor ever will “listen to reason”
Nor barter December for May.
For all that the critics may say,
Nor ever will “listen to reason”
Nor barter December for May.
Each tree, its own kind after, fruiteth,
Some acid and sweet other some.
To say to the apple what booteth,
“A peach shouldst thou be or a plum?”
Some acid and sweet other some.
To say to the apple what booteth,
“A peach shouldst thou be or a plum?”
Each bird hath its song-singing minute,
Night, morning, noon, even, light, dark.
What skilleth it blackbird as linnet
Or nightingale bid be as lark?
Night, morning, noon, even, light, dark.
What skilleth it blackbird as linnet
Or nightingale bid be as lark?
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Each flower hath its bloom, willy nilly:
The fool's part to bid 'twere, God knows,
The wallflower be white as the lily,
The violet red as the rose.
The fool's part to bid 'twere, God knows,
The wallflower be white as the lily,
The violet red as the rose.
The thought that is born in the poet
He renders anew in his song
Nor asks if the dunce for good know it
Or evil, for right or for wrong.
He renders anew in his song
Nor asks if the dunce for good know it
Or evil, for right or for wrong.
The things that are given him he giveth,
Unknowing of good or of bad;
The life that is lent him he liveth
Nor recketh of sorry or glad.
Unknowing of good or of bad;
The life that is lent him he liveth
Nor recketh of sorry or glad.
One biddeth him this and another
Be that; but the poet, trust me,
Himself is, my critical brother,
And may not be other than he.
Be that; but the poet, trust me,
Himself is, my critical brother,
And may not be other than he.
| Carol and Cadence | |