 | The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman |  |
397
RESTRAINT
I
Poet, in thy sacred verseNothing light or mean rehearse,
Nor its woven text employ
With thy common grief and joy.
Thoughts the unanointed share
Need have not of raiment rare,
But in prose may range at will
And be fitly clothen still.
II
Keep the fabric of thine artAs a precious thing apart—
Such a robe as only may
Wrap one on a holy day;
If at all its folds be thrown
Round experience thine own,
Let it grace in argent white
Thy most rapturous delight,
Or in darkest sable show
Deeper woes than others know,
Lest the mantle, lightly worn,
Bring thy trifling soul to scorn.
III
Let thy skill no more investListless fancy, mocking jest,
Fashion of the fleeting day,
Shallow love and idle play,
Nor the wisdom, poor and plain,
Of a dull, didactic brain.
Its adornment should enfold
Thought as rich and fine as gold.
398
Were a guise of little worth,
Shall, through thy regard intense,
Gain from all men reverence;
Honor it and thou shalt see
It will honor bring to thee.
IV
Singer, though on wings of mornThou at will art swiftly borne,
Use them not for every quest;
Ruffle not their folded rest
That thy daily sport and toil
May be lifted from the soil.
Even the winged angels walk
Side by side in pleasant talk,
And with loitering footsteps move
Through the valleys fair with love;
But anon, commissioned far
Light to strew from star to star,
Spread their plumes and soar on high,
Bearing glory through the sky!
| The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman | |