THE POET'S ART
How doth the poet weave his magic song,
His warp the golden threads of living truth,
With silver words and phrases for the woof,
That all may blend in fabric fair and strong?
He sitteth by his loom and ponders long
Those things that make or mar the lives of men.
From out the depths of all that he has been
He summons back the grief, the strife, the wrong
And lays them all beside the joy of May,
From every varied hue of mortal strife
He gathers in each streaming thread of life
And weaves them all into his perfect lay—
This is the secret of the poet's art,
Nearer to God, nearer the human heart.
His warp the golden threads of living truth,
With silver words and phrases for the woof,
That all may blend in fabric fair and strong?
He sitteth by his loom and ponders long
Those things that make or mar the lives of men.
From out the depths of all that he has been
He summons back the grief, the strife, the wrong
And lays them all beside the joy of May,
From every varied hue of mortal strife
He gathers in each streaming thread of life
And weaves them all into his perfect lay—
This is the secret of the poet's art,
Nearer to God, nearer the human heart.
HOMEWARD BOUND
"We're homeward bound," the sailor sings,
"We skim the main with sea-gull wings;
We care not for the raging storm
When we can see the mast-head's form,
At Neptune's wrath all sailors laugh
When love is waiting at the wharf.
"We skim the main with sea-gull wings;
We care not for the raging storm
When we can see the mast-head's form,
At Neptune's wrath all sailors laugh
When love is waiting at the wharf.
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