Poems (Freston)/The Human Heart
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THE HUMAN HEART
I do not sing of birds or flowers,
Of sobbing winds or zephyr's sigh;
Of starry spheres, of sunlit bowers,
Nor of the shades of sea or sky.
Of sobbing winds or zephyr's sigh;
Of starry spheres, of sunlit bowers,
Nor of the shades of sea or sky.
I fain would sweep the vibrant chords,
That string the pulsing human heart,
And from their passion and their pain,
Would sound the melodies of art.
That string the pulsing human heart,
And from their passion and their pain,
Would sound the melodies of art.
A Milton may lift up his voice,
And tell of God's angelic host,
But I am human, and to sound
The human heart is all my boast.
And tell of God's angelic host,
But I am human, and to sound
The human heart is all my boast.
That I would know in all its hues,—
Its highest heaven, its lowest hell,—
Its soaring wings and leaden weights,—
All that the poet's pen may tell.
Its highest heaven, its lowest hell,—
Its soaring wings and leaden weights,—
All that the poet's pen may tell.
If I can touch one aching chord
And hush its moaning,—drive away
The vultures from some dying hope,
And show to shattered dreams a ray
And hush its moaning,—drive away
The vultures from some dying hope,
And show to shattered dreams a ray
Of something fairer than the dream,—
A courage that shall triumph yet,—
For this dear gift of poesy
I surely shall have paid my debt.
A courage that shall triumph yet,—
For this dear gift of poesy
I surely shall have paid my debt.
Let others sing of birds and flowers,
Of sunsets fair in rose and gold,
But I would sing the human heart,
And all the wonders it can hold.
Of sunsets fair in rose and gold,
But I would sing the human heart,
And all the wonders it can hold.