THE POET'S PEN.
I am an idle reed;
I rustle in the whispering air;
I bear my stalk and seed
Through spring-time's glow and summer's glare.
And in the fiercer strife
Which winter brings to me amain,
Sapless, I waste my life,
And, murmuring at my fate, complain.
I am a worthless reed;
No golden top have I for crown,
No flower for beauty's meed,
No wreath for poet's high renown.
Hollow and gaunt, my wand
Shrill whistles, bending in the gale;
Leafless and sad I stand,
And, still neglected, still bewail.
O foolish reed! to wail!
A poet came, with downcast eyes,
And, wandering through the dale,
Saw thee and claimed thee for his prize.
He plucked thee from the mire;
He pruned and made of thee a pen,
And wrote in words of fire
His flaming song to listening men;
Till thou, so lowly bred,
Now wedded to a nobler state,
Utt'rest such pæans overhead
That angels listen at their gate.
F.A. HILLARD.