Poems (Freston)/The Human Heart
THE HUMAN HEART
I do not sing of birds or flowers, Of sobbing winds or zephyr's sigh;Of starry spheres, of sunlit bowers, Nor of the shades of sea or sky.
I fain would sweep the vibrant chords,That string the pulsing human heart,And from their passion and their pain, Would sound the melodies of art.
A Milton may lift up his voice, And tell of God's angelic host,But I am human, and to sound The human heart is all my boast.
That I would know in all its hues,—Its highest heaven, its lowest hell,—Its soaring wings and leaden weights,—All that the poet's pen may tell.
If I can touch one aching chord And hush its moaning,—drive away The vultures from some dying hope, And show to shattered dreams a ray
Of something fairer than the dream,—A courage that shall triumph yet,—For this dear gift of poesy I surely shall have paid my debt.
Let others sing of birds and flowers, Of sunsets fair in rose and gold, But I would sing the human heart,And all the wonders it can hold.