 | Jones Very : The Complete Poems |  |
The Poet
As one who 'midst a choir alone doth sing,When voices harsh fill all his soul with pain,
So that from even a note he would refrain,
And flee away as with a dove's swift wing,
Yet for Religion's sake you see him stay,
And try to raise her service what he may;—
So doth the Poet live amidst his age!
Though at the first his lyre he scarce can hear,
He does not drown its discords in his rage,
Nor fly where they will not offend his ear;
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His heaven-taught strain he more and more prolongs;
Till one by one they with his paean blend,
And all in one harmonious concert end.
Poem No. 55; c. December 1859
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