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Ere the placid lips be cold ?
Spiritual Adeline ?
What hope or fear or joy is thine ?
Do beating hearts of salient springs
Hast thou heard the butterflies
Or in stillest evenings
Or when little airs arise,
To the mosses underneath ?
Hast thou looked upon the breath
Of the lilies at sunrise ?
Some spirit of a crimson rose
His curtains, wasting odorous sighs
And those dew-lit eyes of thine,
Lovest thou the doleful wind
When thou gazest at the skies? Doth the low-tongued Orient Wander from the side o' the morn,
Dripping with Sabæan spice On thy pillow, lowly bent
With melodious airs lovelorn,
Breathing light against thy face,
Round thy neck in subtle ring
And ye talk together still,
Letters cowslips on the hill ?
With a half-glance
upon the sky
He spake of beauty: that the dull
He spake of virtue: not the gods
Most delicately hour by hour
With lips depressed as he were meek,
Tule poet in a golden clime was born,
With golden stars above; Dowered with the hate of bate, the scorn of scorn,
The love of love.
He saw through life and death, through good and ill,
He saw through his own soul.
An open scroll,
The secret'st walks of fame :
And winged with flame,
And of so fierce a flight,
Filling with light
And vagrant melodies the winds which bore
Them earthward till they lit;
The fruitful wit,
Where'er they fell, behold,
A flower all gold,
And bravely furnished all abroad to fling
The winged shafts of truth, To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring
Of Hope and Youth. So
many minds did gird their orbs with beams,
Though one did fling the fire.
Of high desire.
Like one great garden showed,
Rare sunrise flowed.
And Freedom reared in that august sunrise
Her beautiful bold brow,
Melted like snow.
There was no blood upon her maiden robes
Sunned by those orient skies;
Of her keen eyes
And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame
WISDOM, a name to shake
And when she spake,
Her words did gather thunder as they ran,
And as the lightning to the thunder Which follows it, riving the spirit of man,
Making earth wonder,
Of wrath her right arm whirled,
She shook the world.
THE POET'S MIND.
Vex not thou the poet's mind
With thy shallow wit:
For thou canst not fathom it.
Dark-browed sophist, come not anear;
All the place is holy ground;
Come not here.
Into every spicy flower
In your eye there is death,
There is frost in your breath Which would blight the plants. Where you stand you cannot hear
From the groves within
The wild-bird's din. In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants,