 | The Triangular Society |  |
264
WRITING TO ORDER.
“Dear friend, if I could only sing like you,
My life would be one dream of rare delight;
I would not cease my song the whole year through,
But keep the sweet verse flowing day and night;
Come, weave a poem just for me, to-day—
Indeed, dear friend, you cannot say me nay!”
My life would be one dream of rare delight;
I would not cease my song the whole year through,
But keep the sweet verse flowing day and night;
Come, weave a poem just for me, to-day—
Indeed, dear friend, you cannot say me nay!”
265
Write you a poem? is there no escape?
Must I sit down and spin a narrow verse
As one would measure off a yard of tape?
Mark the result! no stanzas could be worse
Than these, to which laboriously I bend,
Only to pleasure my exacting friend.
Must I sit down and spin a narrow verse
As one would measure off a yard of tape?
Mark the result! no stanzas could be worse
Than these, to which laboriously I bend,
Only to pleasure my exacting friend.
Say, can you guide the spirits of the air,
Or have the rainbow come before the shower?
Or tell the clouds what color they shall wear,
Or help the gradual budding of a flower?
Or call the robins back before they choose,
Hurry the sunset, or bring down the dews?
Or have the rainbow come before the shower?
Or tell the clouds what color they shall wear,
Or help the gradual budding of a flower?
Or call the robins back before they choose,
Hurry the sunset, or bring down the dews?
Can you command the planets where they roll,
Or speak a nebulous world to sudden prime?
Or force the tides to own your small control,
Or bid a rosebud bloom before its time?
Or make the brook run faster at your word,
Or regulate the warbling of a bird?
Or speak a nebulous world to sudden prime?
Or force the tides to own your small control,
Or bid a rosebud bloom before its time?
Or make the brook run faster at your word,
Or regulate the warbling of a bird?
Or make the morn unclose her golden bars
Before her hour, to let the daylight in?
Haste the appointed rising of the stars,
Or show them when their annual rounds begin?
Or cause the auroral lights to fade or glow,
Or tell the meteors which way to go?
Before her hour, to let the daylight in?
Haste the appointed rising of the stars,
Or show them when their annual rounds begin?
Or cause the auroral lights to fade or glow,
Or tell the meteors which way to go?
“No!” is the wondering answer which you send
Back to my queries, with indignant flash—
“Rule Nature? no!” But I assure you, friend,
He who should dare all this, were not more rash
Than you, who would attempt to rule for me
The power whose shadowing forth is poesy.
Back to my queries, with indignant flash—
“Rule Nature? no!” But I assure you, friend,
He who should dare all this, were not more rash
Than you, who would attempt to rule for me
The power whose shadowing forth is poesy.
266
For he is wilful as the wandering air;—
Ay, as capricious as the winds that blow;
Sometimes I seek him vainly everywhere—
Anon he comes, and stays, and will not go;
Unwon by prayers, or tears, or love, or gold,
Both hard to drive away and hard to hold.
Ay, as capricious as the winds that blow;
Sometimes I seek him vainly everywhere—
Anon he comes, and stays, and will not go;
Unwon by prayers, or tears, or love, or gold,
Both hard to drive away and hard to hold.
Sometimes he comes with airy retinue
Of rare conceits, and fancies sweet and strange,
And dainty dreamings; and the long hours through,
He rings upon my heart their every change,
While I walk charmed and haunted all the day,
Until the fair enchantment fades away,
Of rare conceits, and fancies sweet and strange,
And dainty dreamings; and the long hours through,
He rings upon my heart their every change,
While I walk charmed and haunted all the day,
Until the fair enchantment fades away,
And he is gone, as lightning leaves the sky;
Whither, who knows? I may not call him back,
Or if I call, he comes not; I might cry
And wring my hands, and drape myself in black,
But he would fling defiance from afar;
I might as well entreat a shooting star.
Whither, who knows? I may not call him back,
Or if I call, he comes not; I might cry
And wring my hands, and drape myself in black,
But he would fling defiance from afar;
I might as well entreat a shooting star.
And days go by, but he is absent still,
Perhaps to visit other hearts than mine;
No inspirations then my pulses thrill,
I cannot braid a verse, or weave a line,
Or catch the strain that charmed me while I slept;
My soul is silent as a harp unswept.
Perhaps to visit other hearts than mine;
No inspirations then my pulses thrill,
I cannot braid a verse, or weave a line,
Or catch the strain that charmed me while I slept;
My soul is silent as a harp unswept.
And so I wait. Not now with toil and pain
I try to win him back, and plead with him,
And blame myself, and bruise my barren brain
Against his lordly will or freakish whim,—
For I have learned mute patience, knowing when
My master pleases, he will come again.
I try to win him back, and plead with him,
And blame myself, and bruise my barren brain
Against his lordly will or freakish whim,—
For I have learned mute patience, knowing when
My master pleases, he will come again.
267
So, friend, forgive this stubborn pen of mine,
It will not always yield to my behest;
The summer firefly can not always shine—
The roses have the winter-time to rest—
The sparrow does not warble all the year,
And why should I, who have so few to hear?
It will not always yield to my behest;
The summer firefly can not always shine—
The roses have the winter-time to rest—
The sparrow does not warble all the year,
And why should I, who have so few to hear?
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