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THE POET'S HEART

Time was when I a poet's name Ambitiously did seek; But ah! no more I crave for fame, My spirits bent and weak: Alas! to will is not to do, To strive not to attain; How many start to climb—how few Parnassus' summit gain!
To feel poetic sympathies Doth not a poet make, But oh! 'tis hard we can't reveal Our rapture or heartache; Sad to be dumb when we would fain Pour out our joy or woe— The rich reward, the priceless gain That poets only know—
Of hearing said in grateful words By youth or maiden fair,— "Ah! in that verse my heart that bled In helpless dumb despair Has found its voice at last, and pours Out in a flood its grief; My woe that grovelled now outsoars Itself, and gains relief!"

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