Page:Poems Greenwell.djvu/72

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;