 | Songs Old and New |  |
75
THE POET'S DAILY BREAD.
The Poet does not dwell apart, enshrined in golden beams;
He is not mailed from Time's rude blows in a panoply of dreams.
He is not mailed from Time's rude blows in a panoply of dreams.
No Pegasus bears him aloft in pathways 'mid the clouds;
But he must tread the common earth, mingling in common crowds.
But he must tread the common earth, mingling in common crowds.
He dwells not in fair solitudes, a still and lone recluse;
But he must handle common tools to his diviner use.
But he must handle common tools to his diviner use.
He does not list in magic caves the music of life's ocean;
Borne freely on its winds and waves he feels their every motion.
Borne freely on its winds and waves he feels their every motion.
76
The glory which around him shines is no fictitious ray;
It is the sun which shines on all, the light of common day.
It is the sun which shines on all, the light of common day.
But he has won an open eye to see things as they are,
A glory in God's meanest works which passeth fiction far.
A glory in God's meanest works which passeth fiction far.
His ear is open to discern stirrings of angel wings,
And angel whispers come to him from mute and common things.
And angel whispers come to him from mute and common things.
And Nature ever meeting him with the same radiant face,
And filling still her daily round with the old quiet grace,
And filling still her daily round with the old quiet grace,
Is fresh and glorious as at first, and mightier far to bless,
His youth's strong passion growing ripe in deep home-tenderness.
His youth's strong passion growing ripe in deep home-tenderness.
And truths to which his childhood clung, like songs repeated often
By the sweet voice of one we love, do but the surer soften.
By the sweet voice of one we love, do but the surer soften.
77
One thing he scorns with bitter scorn, the lived or spoken lie;
Yet knowing what a labyrinth life, how dim the inward eye,
Yet knowing what a labyrinth life, how dim the inward eye,
Is slow to brand his fellow-man as false, or base, or mean,
Or aught which has fed human hearts as common or unclean.
Or aught which has fed human hearts as common or unclean.
Nature prepares no royal food for this her royal guest,
No special banquet is for him at life's full table dressed.
No special banquet is for him at life's full table dressed.
But all life's honest impulses, home joys, and cares, and tears,
The shower of cordial laughter which the clouded bosom clears;
The shower of cordial laughter which the clouded bosom clears;
All earnest voices of his kind, calm thoughts of solitude,
All of the world that is not husks,—this is the poet's food.
All of the world that is not husks,—this is the poet's food.
God's living poem speaks to him, God-like in every line;
Not all man's hackneyed renderings can make it less Divine.
Not all man's hackneyed renderings can make it less Divine.
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