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THE POET OF TO-DAY.
What siren joy from thy high trust hath won thee,
O Poet of to-day?—thou still unheard,
Though struggling nations cast their eyes upon thee,
And the roused world is waiting for thy word!
What siren joy from thy high trust hath won thee,
O Poet of to-day?—thou still unheard,
Though struggling nations cast their eyes upon thee,
And the roused world is waiting for thy word!
Why lingerest thou amid the summer places,
The gardens of romance, the haunt of dreams,
'Mid verdurous shadows, lit by fairy faces,
And fitful playing of soft, golden gleams?
The gardens of romance, the haunt of dreams,
'Mid verdurous shadows, lit by fairy faces,
And fitful playing of soft, golden gleams?
There have thy fiery thoughts and hopes betaken
To still delights, and loveliness, and rest,
Thy life to quiet gliding, lest it waken
The languid lilies sleeping on its breast.
To still delights, and loveliness, and rest,
Thy life to quiet gliding, lest it waken
The languid lilies sleeping on its breast.
