Poems (Greenwell)/Poets

by Dora Greenwell

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;

And the strength and the loving, to gaze on each thing
That they have not with joy in its beauty, and sing,
 To some He hath given.

These sit in their gladness, all robed and all crowned.
As guests at Life's banquet, while swift circles around
 Life's rosy joy-bringer;
But a banquet needs music, so these in the cold
Stand singing without; though his harp be of gold,
 Wilt thou envy the singer?

For one (was it one then?) went forth from the crowd,
A warrior, chosen, and faithful, and vowed;
 Sore-wounded, they found him
With a bright-blazoned banner wrapt round him, and prest
To his bosom, to stanch its deep death-hurt; none guessed
That his life-blood welled over it darkly, so proud
 Was the purple that bound him.

Ye sit by the hearth in the cold, bright spring weather
At evening, and hear the birds chiming together;
And ye say, "Happy singers!" forgetting the trees
Are leafless, and keen winds hold back beyond the seas
The swallow, blithe comer;
Yet Summer is coming for us as for these,—
 A long Summer.