 | My Lyrical Life |  |
1
PREFATORY POEM.
A singer sang in sleep, and, sleeping, dreamed
He sang divinely, while his spirit seemed
So far in Music's heaven to soar and sing,
They could not follow who stood listening!
For him, the soul of sweetness found a voice.
For them, the Singer only “made a noise.”
He sang divinely, while his spirit seemed
So far in Music's heaven to soar and sing,
They could not follow who stood listening!
For him, the soul of sweetness found a voice.
For them, the Singer only “made a noise.”
Such is the difference in the uttered strain,
From that fine music passing through the brain.
Such sumless treasures we possess in dreams,
To find at waking only mirrored gleams.
No revelation of the written word
Will render all the spirit saw and heard.
From that fine music passing through the brain.
Such sumless treasures we possess in dreams,
To find at waking only mirrored gleams.
No revelation of the written word
Will render all the spirit saw and heard.
So fresh they breathed; so faded now they look;
My few poor withered flowers in a book.
Gone is the glory that once gleamed from them;
The Spirit of Light imprisoned in the gem!
Now the winged life hath settled down in words,
These seem but stuffed instead of Singing Birds.
My few poor withered flowers in a book.
Gone is the glory that once gleamed from them;
The Spirit of Light imprisoned in the gem!
Now the winged life hath settled down in words,
These seem but stuffed instead of Singing Birds.
Feelings brimful of warmth as is a rose
Of its June-red, have lost their perfumed glows;
The heaven-revealing thoughts that star-like shone,
The daily kindlings of eternal dawn,
All darkened down, like Meteors that have birth
In Heaven, to flash and quench them cold in earth.
Of its June-red, have lost their perfumed glows;
The heaven-revealing thoughts that star-like shone,
The daily kindlings of eternal dawn,
All darkened down, like Meteors that have birth
In Heaven, to flash and quench them cold in earth.
2
We grasp at diamonds visible in the dew,
And open empty tear-wet hands to you!
We clasp at heart the daughters of the skies,
Their shadow stays with us; the substance flies.
Glimpses divine will peep; pictures will pass,
That leave no likeness in the Seer's glass.
And open empty tear-wet hands to you!
We clasp at heart the daughters of the skies,
Their shadow stays with us; the substance flies.
Glimpses divine will peep; pictures will pass,
That leave no likeness in the Seer's glass.
The Poet's best immortally will lurk
In that rare motion of his soul at work.
Bee-like, he brings you one gold honey-drop;
But the full-swing, high on the flower-top,
'Twixt Heaven that rained itself in sweetness down,
And Earth—all bloom for him—is ne'er made known.
In that rare motion of his soul at work.
Bee-like, he brings you one gold honey-drop;
But the full-swing, high on the flower-top,
'Twixt Heaven that rained itself in sweetness down,
And Earth—all bloom for him—is ne'er made known.
MY poem was in the making. These are your
Warmth-needy nurslings, Reader! mine no more.
The life I gave will no more fill my breast
Than the flown birds come back to last year's nest:
And if these live again, 'tis you must give
The reflex thrill to them by which they live.
Warmth-needy nurslings, Reader! mine no more.
The life I gave will no more fill my breast
Than the flown birds come back to last year's nest:
And if these live again, 'tis you must give
The reflex thrill to them by which they live.
You must make out the music from the hint
Prelusive: I but tune the instrument.
The glory or the gladness or the grace
Must shine for me re-orient in your face.
The seed, that in my life took secret root,
In yours must bud, and flower, and bear you fruit.
Prelusive: I but tune the instrument.
The glory or the gladness or the grace
Must shine for me re-orient in your face.
The seed, that in my life took secret root,
In yours must bud, and flower, and bear you fruit.
| My Lyrical Life | |