University of Virginia Library


320

XIV. THE POETRY OF LIFE.

Dian! thy brother of the golden beams
Is hailed for ever as the Lord of Song,
Master of manly verse, and mystic dreams:
Doth, then, no female lyre to thee belong?
Say, is that silver bow whose crescent gleams,
Above black pine-woods lifted, or low-hung
'Twixt hornèd rocks, or troubling midnight streams,
With immelodious cord, and silent, strung?
Ah no, not so! Thou too art musical!
The world is full of poetry unwrit;
Dew-woven nets that virgin hearts enthrall;
Darts of glad thought through infant brains that flit;
Hope and pursuit; loved bonds, and fancies free;—
Poor were our earth of these bereft and thee!