POETRY
The poems of Earth are lived,
Not scratched with the dirty pen.
They are writ in the sense of things
And sung in the hearts of men.
Sensuous strains of Spring
Pouring in silver flood,
Summer’s golden delight
Warming the waiting blood.
Colour, and scent, and sound
Of all the changing year:—
These are the poems of Earth
Which every man must hear.
Sorrow, and pain, and love,
Joy, and fear, and regret:—
These are the burning poems
That all our hearts beget.
These are the poems of Earth
That every man must pen:
Which you and I make up
And straight forget again.