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THE POET'S HEART
Time was when I a poet's name
Ambitiously did seek;
But ah! no more I crave for fame,
My spirits bent and weak:
Alas! to will is not to do,
To strive not to attain;
How many start to climb—how few
Parnassus' summit gain!
Ambitiously did seek;
But ah! no more I crave for fame,
My spirits bent and weak:
Alas! to will is not to do,
To strive not to attain;
How many start to climb—how few
Parnassus' summit gain!
To feel poetic sympathies
Doth not a poet make,
But oh! 'tis hard we can't reveal
Our rapture or heartache;
Sad to be dumb when we would fain
Pour out our joy or woe—
The rich reward, the priceless gain
That poets only know—
Doth not a poet make,
But oh! 'tis hard we can't reveal
Our rapture or heartache;
Sad to be dumb when we would fain
Pour out our joy or woe—
The rich reward, the priceless gain
That poets only know—
Of hearing said in grateful words
By youth or maiden fair,—
"Ah! in that verse my heart that bled
In helpless dumb despair
Has found its voice at last, and pours
Out in a flood its grief;
My woe that grovelled now outsoars
Itself, and gains relief!"
By youth or maiden fair,—
"Ah! in that verse my heart that bled
In helpless dumb despair
Has found its voice at last, and pours
Out in a flood its grief;
My woe that grovelled now outsoars
Itself, and gains relief!"
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