WOULD I WERE A POET.
Make not such wish—'tis vain as the ideal,
Which the heart worships in its lonely hour;
A shadow melting into nothing real,
When sober thought again asserts her power.
Make not such wish—thou little knowest the swellings
Found in the ocean of a poet's life,
Around those pure and delicate indwellings,
That gleam like jeweled caverns through the strife.
Which the heart worships in its lonely hour;
A shadow melting into nothing real,
When sober thought again asserts her power.
Make not such wish—thou little knowest the swellings
Found in the ocean of a poet's life,
Around those pure and delicate indwellings,
That gleam like jeweled caverns through the strife.
The struggling of strong thoughts, the waste of feeling,
The burning heart, consuming all its own,
And like a stern and wayward spirit, sealing
Its own strange destiny, thou hast not known;
The many thronging waves that, spent and wasted,
Subside and sink into the troubled main;
The cup of sweet affection only tasted,
Never to meet the eager lips again.
The burning heart, consuming all its own,
And like a stern and wayward spirit, sealing
Its own strange destiny, thou hast not known;
The many thronging waves that, spent and wasted,
Subside and sink into the troubled main;
The cup of sweet affection only tasted,
Never to meet the eager lips again.
Too much, too dearly loved, the heart is pouring
Before that shrine its every life-throb out;
And from the classic page of mind is storing
Its own with things of beauty or of doubt;
Before that shrine its every life-throb out;
And from the classic page of mind is storing
Its own with things of beauty or of doubt;
