Page:A Treasury of South African Poetry.djvu/40

At divinest intervals,
Wherein bird and music seem
The creation of some dream.
Oh, but hearken! clear and strong
Again the swift notes throb and throng,
Rejoicing in a rush of song,
Sweet and passionate above
All that words can tell of love,
Flowing on and on, as tho'
It would never cease to flow,
For the singer, in his gladness,
Sings himself to very madness,
And, to share his heart's delight
With all around, would flood the night
With music, as the perfect moon
Floods it with her stintless boon
Of splendour, when she hovers bright,
Pure and naked in the height
Of heaven's dome of crystallite.
But not the minstrel's utmost art
Can fully to the world impart
The song he sings within his heart;
And here, here too, the real
Reaches not its dream-ideal;
And the birth so long o'erwrought
By incommunicable thought,
Yearns, until his voice is fraught
With sobs and tears and notes that wane,
And the wild impassioned strain
Dies away, nor wakes again.

W. E. Hunter.