 | The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard |  |
312
HEAD, OR HEART.
The loving songs you sing to me
With such a subtle art,
My poet, are they from the head,
Or are they from the heart?
With such a subtle art,
My poet, are they from the head,
Or are they from the heart?
“From somewhere in the skies,
It may be near, or far,
From cloud, or moon, or star,
A misty Spirit flies,
When summer nights are deep,
And all are fast asleep,
The Spirit of whom the flowers,
In the long, dim hours,
Dream, with their lips apart,
Who gives, as he goes,
To lily and rose
With rapture dumb,
A kiss, that slips in the heart,
Where, when the morn is come,
We find it as dew,
Pure, perfect, divine.
Such are these songs of mine.”
It may be near, or far,
From cloud, or moon, or star,
A misty Spirit flies,
When summer nights are deep,
And all are fast asleep,
The Spirit of whom the flowers,
In the long, dim hours,
Dream, with their lips apart,
Who gives, as he goes,
To lily and rose
With rapture dumb,
A kiss, that slips in the heart,
Where, when the morn is come,
We find it as dew,
Pure, perfect, divine.
Such are these songs of mine.”
Not from your heart, then, as you said,
False one, your songs, but from your head.
False one, your songs, but from your head.
“Deep down beneath the sea,
Whose dreadful waves are whirled
About the roots of the world,
Where death and darkness be,
A little creature lurks,
Who upwards works, and works;
Thorough the waters vast,
Thorough the waters green,
Up, up, until at last
The light of day is seen,
When lo, it has builded an isle
Above the seas,
Whereon the heavens smile,
And summer the whole year through
Hangs fruit on the trees,
And the isle is one great vine.
Such are these songs of mine.”
Whose dreadful waves are whirled
About the roots of the world,
Where death and darkness be,
313
Who upwards works, and works;
Thorough the waters vast,
Thorough the waters green,
Up, up, until at last
The light of day is seen,
When lo, it has builded an isle
Above the seas,
Whereon the heavens smile,
And summer the whole year through
Hangs fruit on the trees,
And the isle is one great vine.
Such are these songs of mine.”
And if your songs, so fine your art,
Are from the head, and from the heart,
I wonder now whence this is?
You answer me with kisses!
Are from the head, and from the heart,
I wonder now whence this is?
You answer me with kisses!
| The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard | |