Freston
3
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.
