Poems (Greenwell)/Poets

POETS.

One spake to a Poet, "And whence hast thou won The key to the melodies vagrant that run And throb along Nature's strong pulse, like a strain That haunts us by snatches, yet doth not attain, Save in thee, to completeness: The wind-song, the bird-song, the song of the leaves, The heart-song which breathes through them all, and receives E'en in giving them sweetness?"

Then he answered, "From God, who to each at His will From His fulness gives somewhat the yearning to still Of the soul, that as yet He designs not to fill; For He would not that any should tax him and say,'Thou gavest me nought as I went by the way To joy in and bless Thee.'"

And His gifts are all blessed; He giveth to some Rich boons; they are happy, and so they are dumb,— There was Silence in Heaven;

And the strength and the loving, to gaze on each thing That they have not with joy in its beauty, and sing, To some He hath given.

These sit in their gladness, all robed and all crowned. As guests at Life's banquet, while swift circles around Life's rosy joy-bringer; But a banquet needs music, so these in the cold Stand singing without; though his harp be of gold, Wilt thou envy the singer?

For one (was it one then?) went forth from the crowd, A warrior, chosen, and faithful, and vowed; Sore-wounded, they found him With a bright-blazoned banner wrapt round him, and prest To his bosom, to stanch its deep death-hurt; none guessed That his life-blood welled over it darkly, so proud Was the purple that bound him.

Ye sit by the hearth in the cold, bright spring weather At evening, and hear the birds chiming together; And ye say, "Happy singers!" forgetting the trees Are leafless, and keen winds hold back beyond the seas The swallow, blithe comer; Yet Summer is coming for us as for these,— A long Summer.