[Poems by Whitman in] The ladies' wreath a selection from the female poetic writers of England and America |
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TO THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. |
 | [Poems by Whitman in] The ladies' wreath |  |
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TO THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.
Hail! queen of high and holy thought;
Of dreams, with fairy beauty fraught;
Sweet memories of the days gone by;
Glimpses of immortality.
Visions of grandeur, glory, power,
All that in inspiration's hour,
Like sunset's changing glories roll
Within the poet's raptured soul!
Of dreams, with fairy beauty fraught;
Sweet memories of the days gone by;
Glimpses of immortality.
Visions of grandeur, glory, power,
All that in inspiration's hour,
Like sunset's changing glories roll
Within the poet's raptured soul!
Thy throne is in the crimson fold,
Around the setting day-star rolled—
Thou walkest through the sapphire sky,
When the bright moon is sailing high,
Touching the stars with purer light,
And lending holier charms to night:
The clouds a deeper glory wear,
The winds a softer music bear,
And earth is heaven, when thou art there.
Around the setting day-star rolled—
Thou walkest through the sapphire sky,
When the bright moon is sailing high,
Touching the stars with purer light,
And lending holier charms to night:
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The winds a softer music bear,
And earth is heaven, when thou art there.
There's not a murmur on the breeze,
Nor ripple on the dark, blue seas,
Nor breath of violets, faintly sweet,
Nor glittering dewdrop at our feet,
Nor tinge of mellow radiance, where
Soft moon-beams melt along the air;
Nor shade, nor tint, on flower or tree,
But takes a softer grace from thee.
Nor ripple on the dark, blue seas,
Nor breath of violets, faintly sweet,
Nor glittering dewdrop at our feet,
Nor tinge of mellow radiance, where
Soft moon-beams melt along the air;
Nor shade, nor tint, on flower or tree,
But takes a softer grace from thee.
And love itself—the brightest gem
In all creation's diadem—
Oh! what were mortal love, didst thou
Not lend a glory to his brow?
Degraded, though of heavenly birth,
And sullied with the cares of earth—
Wasted and worn, by doubts and fears,
Its youthful smiles soon change to tears:
But at thy spirit-stirring breath,
It burst the bonds of sin and death;
And, robed in heavenly charms by thee,
It puts on immortality.
In all creation's diadem—
Oh! what were mortal love, didst thou
Not lend a glory to his brow?
Degraded, though of heavenly birth,
And sullied with the cares of earth—
Wasted and worn, by doubts and fears,
Its youthful smiles soon change to tears:
But at thy spirit-stirring breath,
It burst the bonds of sin and death;
And, robed in heavenly charms by thee,
It puts on immortality.
| [Poems by Whitman in] The ladies' wreath | |