Poems (Terry, 1861)/"Non fit"

by Rose Terry Cooke

"NON FIT"

The poet's thoughts are full of might,
Elate with glory and delight;
New tints are in his heavens spread;
On odors keen his sense is fed,"
And strains accordant angels sing;
Through all his sleep their echoes ring.

The poet has a lonely soul;
He hears the seas in thunder roll,
Perceives the rapture of the rose,
And every tone of Nature knows;
But cannot speak the tongue of men,
Or give their greetings back again.

His eyes alight with love intense,
His face all calm with innocence;
The green leaves kiss his waving hair,
The wild-birds sing him carols rare,
Intent to celebrate and bless;
His Eden fills the wilderness.

But all his songs are minor-keyed;
His prayers are less to praise than plead,
His smiles are full of grief asleep,
His heart like ocean's bitter deep;
For tears and laughter, hand in hand,
About his vibrant nature stand.

At this the world admiring gaze,
And think they feed his soul with praise;
But whisper in a loud aside,
"Is this your poet's vaunted pride?
Why, better be the common clay
Than thus 'twixt heaven and hell astray."

But he, respiring sudden fire,
Hears and replies in righteous ire,
"Better to sound the depths of hell,
If thence to heaven our praises swell;
Nobler than life, or love, to die
Transfixed with immortality!"