Rosemary and Pansies/The Poet's Heart
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!
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—
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!"
Or, in the verse the lover findsHis rapturous love portrayedSo wondrously, he cries—"What mindsThese poets have—some aidSupernal they must needs obtain,Else how could they displayThe thoughts that folded in my brain,Hopeless of utterance, lay?"
Ah! had I but the poet's heartAll else would I forego,And bear with patience every smartFate might on me bestow:No other gift so rich and rareCan mortal man obtain,E'en though 'tis linked with carking care,And with the world's disdain.
When vain is philosophic speechAnd reason pleads in vain,Even then the poet's words will reachThe heart and soothe its pain:There's no dark corner of the soulThe poet may not scan—Philosophers see part—the wholeOnly the poet can.
1885