Words for the Hour/The Lyric I
THE LYRIC I.
Have pity on the lyric I,The poet's eye that finely rolls,And holds convertible domainFrom burning Cancer to the poles.
Not of itself th' incandescent sparkThat sets men's thoughts to smoke and blaze;It is a spirit fire-glass,That kindles with concentred rays.
It hath a weary work to do,Fifth of all sounds that sing or sigh,Third of the great things I O U,It speeds, the monographic I.
Its pain and evil I have seenWhere heart and manhood withering lie,And said: "Good friend, you cannot heal,Till you consent to lose this I."
Empiric if our notions be,Or with Hegelian learning wise,Or set on simplest common sense,There is a difference in our I—s.
The philosophic I, is notThe I that any man may meetOn errands of familiar use,Or held to greetings in the street.
The I that cannot choose but standGreat rights and wrongings to assert,Is not the I that wastes the meal,And leaves hiatus in the shirt.***Nor must the sorrows of my songStand for the household weights I bear,Who thankful every morn returnTo tasks beloved of thought and prayer.
Nor such as share my working sphere,Plagued with my music to the soul,For Giant foes that shut the worldWith false and tyrannous control.
Eyes may be sad at prison barsTo whom the sun is glad and free;And placid depths of Being showThe storm-clouds of Humanity.
And as one emblematic cupFrom lip to lip doth fervent move,So make my poet vase a boonFor all who weep, and think, and love.