University of Virginia Library

1

[The Poet, ponder, in what differs he]

The Poet, ponder, in what differs he
From all who share, with him, the common name
Of man? Are not their faculties the same?
To both is given, alike, the eye to see
The nameless beauty, and the majesty,
That robe, in wonder, the revolving frame
Of this fair earth, and those bright hosts that came,
In glory, at his call who bade them be.
The beauty scattered round us, day by day,
To the outward eye is visible alike
Of all. The voices, that around our way
Are ever murmuring music, do they strike
Unheard the outward ear of any? No.
In what then differs he from all below?

2

[The Poet, in what differs he from all]

The Poet, in what differs he from all
His fellow dwellers in this goodly earth?
In this,—heard, day by day, even from our birth,
At length the melodies of nature fall
Unheeded on our ears; unanswered call
Her thousand voices, murmuring of mirth,
Or melancholy, to us; for no worth,
We learn to think, have common things. We wall
Ourselves around with thickening apathy,
Till on the robing of the earth we throw
Eyes blinded to its beauty,—till we see,
Unmoved, whatever earth or heaven can show;
And, coldly, owning all is passing fair,
Yet fail to feel the glory glowing there.

3

[The Poet, in what differs he from all]

The Poet, in what differs he from all
His fellow rulers of the subject earth?
In this,—that, even from his very birth,
The thousand voices that, in music, call
To man from nature, on his ear will fall,
Each time but waking in him wilder mirth,
Or deeper sadness, than before. Their worth
Things common hold with him: use may not wall
The least of them from out his wondering love
And wordless admiration. He will gaze
Upon the heavens, in glory spread above,
Upon the teeming earth, with such amaze,
With such deep, soul-felt, awe, as if before
His eyes their beauty never wandered o'er.

4

[The Poet, from his race how differs he?]

The Poet, from his race how differs he?
Unlike is he, in this,—he has an eye,
All quick, to mark the beautiful, past by,
Unnoted, by his fellows. Novelty
Must startle their dull senses, for they see
The marvellous not in the things that lie,
For ever, day by day, their footsteps nigh.
Not so with the true poet can it be:
To him the beautiful is never veiled,
The wondrous never hidden. Through his days,
As when, with wild rejoicing shout, he hailed
Their beauty, startling first his childish gaze,
He parts the weeds that lowly violets hide,
Or to the gentle daisy turns aside.

5

[How differs he, the Poet, from all those]

How differs he, the Poet, from all those
Who breathe with him, alike, the common air?
He has an ear to drink delight in, where
The mass of men hear nothing. Music flows,
For him, from all created things. We close
Our ears to customary sounds and fare,
All heedless of them, onwards, yet, even there,
In the most common, by that, wandering, goes,
Nor wakes a thought in us, for him there lies
A meaning and a marvel. Still, around
His way, are voices that in mirth arise,
Or pour their gushing sorrow into sound;
All, do all things, winds, woods, the sounding main,
Invoke, with them, to feel,—him, call they not in vain.

6

[For him there is a rapture in the breeze]

For him there is a rapture in the breeze
That kisses, to a glow, his pallid cheek,
What time the morning wakes. Words may not speak
The love he bears to the green haunts of trees,
And the warm, gleaming, sunshine, that he sees
Glancing, through shadow-shielding leaves, to seek,
Amongst the chequered grass, the wild flowers, weak,
With pining for the out-shut light. Birds, bees,
Young laughing flowers, and dancing leaves, he makes
All life-long sharers of unchanging love.
The roaming clouds, the sounding winds, he takes
Even for familiar friends. High prized above
All sensual pleasure, solitude has grown
Peopled for him, companioned when alone.

7

[The Poet, in what differs he from those]

The Poet, in what differs he from those
Who share with him the feelings of his kind?
In this,—In him doth nature ever find
A heart that, while it throbs with life, o'erflows
With love, deep, ever-springing, love. He knows
No joy so sweet as that which is entwined
In that of others, for his feelings wind
About their own so closely, that their woes
Become to him more moving than his own.
To him the voice of ringing laughter's sweet:
He hears the sigh to echo it alone.
Thus lives he in all life. No thing can meet
His eye too lowly for his smiles or tears.
Through him the listening world the heart of nature hears.