THE POET I RIGHT upward on the road of fame Nor Time's snows hide the names he set, Yet every scroll whereon he wrote Fell unregarded to the ground, But when the noisy scorn was past, A Brother of the world, his song Which tore from oaks their branches broad, Times wore he as his clothing-weeds, He sowed the sun and moon for seeds.' As clouds give rain to the eastern breeze, In its fulness he should taste 3 Life's honeycomb, but not too fast; Full fed, but not intoxicated; He should be loved; he should be hated; His heart should palpitate with fear. And well he loved to quit his home To read new landscapes and old skies; - Like meteors which chose their way They bounded to the horizon's edge II The gods talk in the breath of the woods, And fill the long reach of the old seashore |