 | Poems |  |
21
WHY ARE POETS SAD?
Saw'st thou e'er the clean proportions,
Schemed in fulness of thy soul,
Marred to look more like distortions
Than the beauty of a whole?
Heard'st thou e'er poetic passion,
Music-wrought to thrill the heart,
Tamed by some insipid fashion,
Or by players with false art?
Hast thou ever, with the feeling
That the ill might have been stayed,
Watched a loved one, while was stealing
Death upon her like a shade?
Who thwartings such as these has had,
May know why poets oft are sad.
Schemed in fulness of thy soul,
Marred to look more like distortions
Than the beauty of a whole?
Heard'st thou e'er poetic passion,
Music-wrought to thrill the heart,
Tamed by some insipid fashion,
Or by players with false art?
Hast thou ever, with the feeling
That the ill might have been stayed,
22
Death upon her like a shade?
Who thwartings such as these has had,
May know why poets oft are sad.
Poets' lives are daily thwartings;
In their souls they bear such needs,
That to them are ceaseless smartings,
What the world calls highest meeds.
Music sings in their heart-stirrings,
That can find no earthly voice;
Life's best actual forms are blurrings,
To the beauty of their choice.
Man's great sorrows, with heart-feeling,
Daily they in secret moan;
From their eyes are often stealing
For man's woes warm tears unknown.
No poet 's he who can be glad,
With so much round to make him sad.
In their souls they bear such needs,
That to them are ceaseless smartings,
What the world calls highest meeds.
Music sings in their heart-stirrings,
That can find no earthly voice;
Life's best actual forms are blurrings,
To the beauty of their choice.
Man's great sorrows, with heart-feeling,
Daily they in secret moan;
From their eyes are often stealing
For man's woes warm tears unknown.
No poet 's he who can be glad,
With so much round to make him sad.
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