From the tumbling surf, that buries Answering the hoarse Hebrides; And from wrecks of ships, and drifting On the desolate, rainy seas; Ever drifting, drifting, drifting Currents of the restless main; Till in sheltered coves, and reaches All have found repose again. So when storms of wild emotion Of the poet's soul, ere long From each cave and rocky fastness, In its vastness, Floats some fragment of a song: From the far-off isles enchanted, With the golden fruit of Truth ; Gleams Elysian In the tropic clime of Youth; From the strong Will, and the Endeavour That forever Wrestle with the tides of Fate; From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, Tempest-shattered, Floating waste and desolate ; Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless heart; Till at length in books recorded, Household words, no more depart. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist : A feeling of sadness and longing, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. U Come, read to me some poem, Not from the grand old masters, For, like strains of martial music, Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labour, Of wonderful melodies. Such songs have power to quiet Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. |