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 But when the noisy scorn was past, A Brother of the world, his song Sounded like a tempest strong Which tore from oaks their branches broad, And stars from the ecliptic road. Times wore he as his clothing-weeds, He sowed the sun and moon for seeds.' As clouds give rain to the eastern breeze, They totter now and float amain. In its fulness he should taste Life's honeycomb, but not too fast; Full fed, but not intoxicated; He should be loved; he should be hated; A blooming child to children dear, 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 And the poet who overhears He takes no mark of night or day, He would, yet would not, counsel keep, But, like a walker in his sleep With staring eye that seeth none, Ridiculously up and down Seeks how he may fitly tell The heart-o'erlading miracle.' Not yet, not yet, A little while attend; Not yet I sing: but I must wait, I see the coming light, |