Cleaves closer to life's core; the thing alone
Well-nigh it is, not thought about the thing;
No pictured flight across a painted sky—
The bird itself, the beating of its wing;
The pang that is a cry;
Not human language, but pure ecstasy.
In this my Book of Music which hath come
As does a lover's litany by some
Miraculous chance, with added song to song,
I trust I have my Lady done no wrong,
My Lady of Melody I worshipt long.
Blameless the artist praises the sweet rose
If in his art he aim not to compose
An image, all inanimate, that seeks
To copy shrewdly those inviolate cheeks
Or the rich, natural odor imitate;
But shows, as best he can, its grace and state,
The love that in him burns for this fair flower,
And all his joy therein, for one sweet hour.
Nor shall the poet subtly strive to phrase
For any heart save his what music says;
For,—as before the autumn skies and woods,—
A meaning gleams through our own human moods:
Yet is the meaning real; and many a wound
Wherewith our spirits are beaten to the ground
Heals 'neath the sanctity of noble sound.
Ah, not to match the music of the wires
Or trembling breath, the instruments and choirs,
But to tell truly how that moves the soul
In the impassionate and rhythmic word,
By poesy's proper art—which must be heard
