MUSE.
What ! am I like the aatumn breeze for you,
Which feeds on tears even to the very grave,
For whom all grief is but a drop of dew ?
O poet, but one kiss — 't was I who gave.
The weed I fain wonld root from out this sod
Is thine own sloth — thy grief belongs to Grod.
Whatever sorrow thy young heart have found,
Open it well, this ever-sacred wound
Dealt by dark angels — give thy soul relief.
Naught makes us nobler than a noble grief.
Yet deem not, poet, though this pain have come.
That therefore, here below, thou mayst be dumb.
Best are the songs most desperate in their woe —
Immortal ones, which are pure sobs I know.
When the wave-weary pelican once more.
Midst evening-vapors, gains his nest of reeds.
His famished brood run forward on the shore
To see where high above the surge he speeds.
As though even now their prey they could destroy.
They hasten to their sire with screams of joy,
On swollen necks wagging their beaks, they cry;
He slowly wins at last a lofty rock.
Shelters beneath his drooping wing his flock.
And, a sad fisher, gazes on the sky.
