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THE POET'S HEART.
By FREDERICK TENNYSON.
I.
WHEN the Poet's heart is dead,
That with fragrance, light, and sound,
Like a Summer-day was fed,
Where, O, where shall it be found, —
In Sea, or Air, or underground?
II.
It shall be a sunny place;
An urn of odors; a still well,
Upon whose undisturbed face
The lights of Heaven shall love to dwell,
And its far depths make visible.
III.
It shall be a crimson flower
That in Fairyland hath thriven;
For dew a gentle Sprite shall pour
Tears of Angels down from Heaven,
And hush the winds at morn and even.
WHEN the Poet's heart is dead,
That with fragrance, light, and sound,
Like a Summer-day was fed,
Where, O, where shall it be found, —
In Sea, or Air, or underground?
II.
It shall be a sunny place;
An urn of odors; a still well,
Upon whose undisturbed face
The lights of Heaven shall love to dwell,
And its far depths make visible.
III.
It shall be a crimson flower
That in Fairyland hath thriven;
For dew a gentle Sprite shall pour
Tears of Angels down from Heaven,
And hush the winds at morn and even.
262
IV.
It shall be on some fair morn
A swift and many-voiced wind,
Singing down the skies of June,
And with its breath and gladsome tune
Send joy into the heart and mind.
V.
It shall be a fountain springing,
Far up into the happy light,
With a silver carol ringing,
With a magic motion flinging
Its jocund waters, starry-bright.
VI.
It shall be a tiny thing
Whose breath is in it for a day,
To fold at Eve its weary wing,
And at the dewfall die away
On some pure air, or golden ray,
VII.
Falling in a violet-bloom;
Tombed in a sphere of pearly rain;
Its blissful ghost a wild perfume
To come forth with the Morn again,
And wander through an infant's brain;
VIII.
And the pictures it should set
In that temple of Delight
Would make the tearless cherub fret
With its first longing for a sight
Of things beyond the Day and Night.
It shall be on some fair morn
A swift and many-voiced wind,
Singing down the skies of June,
And with its breath and gladsome tune
Send joy into the heart and mind.
V.
It shall be a fountain springing,
Far up into the happy light,
With a silver carol ringing,
With a magic motion flinging
Its jocund waters, starry-bright.
VI.
It shall be a tiny thing
Whose breath is in it for a day,
To fold at Eve its weary wing,
And at the dewfall die away
On some pure air, or golden ray,
VII.
Falling in a violet-bloom;
Tombed in a sphere of pearly rain;
Its blissful ghost a wild perfume
To come forth with the Morn again,
And wander through an infant's brain;
VIII.
And the pictures it should set
In that temple of Delight
Would make the tearless cherub fret
With its first longing for a sight
Of things beyond the Day and Night.
263
IX.
But one moment of its span
Should thicker grow with blissful things
Than any days of mortal Man,
Or his years of Sorrow can,
Though beggars should be crowned kings.
X.
It shall be a tuneful voice
Falling on a Lover's ear,
Enough to make his heart rejoice
For evermore, or far, or near,
In dreams that swallow hope and fear.
XI.
It shall be a chord divine
By Mercy out of Heaven hung forth,
Along whose trembling, airy line
A dying Saint shall hear on earth
Triumphant songs, and harped mirth!
XII.
It shall be a wave forlorn
That o 'er the vast and fearful Sea
In troubled pride and beauty borne
From winged storms shall vainly flee
And seek for rest where none shall be.
XIII.
It shall be a mountain Tree,
Thro' whose great arms the winds shall blow
Louder than the roaring Sea,
And toss its plumed head to and fro;
But a thousand flowers shall live below.
But one moment of its span
Should thicker grow with blissful things
Than any days of mortal Man,
Or his years of Sorrow can,
Though beggars should be crowned kings.
X.
It shall be a tuneful voice
Falling on a Lover's ear,
Enough to make his heart rejoice
For evermore, or far, or near,
In dreams that swallow hope and fear.
XI.
It shall be a chord divine
By Mercy out of Heaven hung forth,
Along whose trembling, airy line
A dying Saint shall hear on earth
Triumphant songs, and harped mirth!
XII.
It shall be a wave forlorn
That o 'er the vast and fearful Sea
In troubled pride and beauty borne
From winged storms shall vainly flee
And seek for rest where none shall be.
XIII.
It shall be a mountain Tree,
Thro' whose great arms the winds shall blow
Louder than the roaring Sea,
And toss its plumed head to and fro;
But a thousand flowers shall live below.
264
XIV.
It shall be a kingly Star
That o'er a thousand Suns shall burn
Where the high Sabaoth are,
And round its glory flung afar
A mighty host shall swiftly turn.
XV.
All things of beauty it shall be —
All things of power — of joy — of fear;
But out of bliss and agony
It shall come forth more pure and free,
And sing a song more sweet to hear.
XVI.
For methinks, when it hath passed
Thro' wondrous Nature's world-wide reign,
Perchance it may come home at last,
And the old Earth may hear again
Its lofty voice of Joy and Pain.
It shall be a kingly Star
That o'er a thousand Suns shall burn
Where the high Sabaoth are,
And round its glory flung afar
A mighty host shall swiftly turn.
XV.
All things of beauty it shall be —
All things of power — of joy — of fear;
But out of bliss and agony
It shall come forth more pure and free,
And sing a song more sweet to hear.
XVI.
For methinks, when it hath passed
Thro' wondrous Nature's world-wide reign,
Perchance it may come home at last,
And the old Earth may hear again
Its lofty voice of Joy and Pain.
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