The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 40
The Poet
The Poet.
O! I thank you for your kindness,
But your pains are tittle worth;
I must grope along in blindness
Till the light has sadden birth.
Yes, the subject has its beauty,
And a poet could reveal it;
But a thousand calls of duty
Call for silence till
I feel it.
O! I may not choose the season,
I am called and I obey,
And with brighter lamp than reason
I can tread a trackless way.
Not in action, but in being,
Are my golden moments won;
When the eye too rapt for seeing,
Dreams in music self-begun;
And the soul, to all the forces
Yields in concert all her power!—
To the planets in their courses,
To the sea, the growing flower.
And in truest recreation
All my pulses beat anew,
And with sweet and strange elation
Comes the beautiful and true.
Then life's mystery seems lightened,
And more freely I respire,
And my faith and love are heightened—
I have passed through cleansing fire.
Oh, I know you but suggested
With a heart that overflows;
That the scene in language vested
Might give pleasure or repose.
But I must be thrilled with pleasure,
Or be moved by bitter wrong.
Ere my thoughts can run in measure,
Or blossom into song.