A SONNET FOR POETS.
Sometimes birds sing not though the morn is fair;
Sometimes flowers folded lie beneath the sun;
Sometimes no dew falls though the day is done;
Sometimes where fruit should grow the branch is bare;
Sometimes the truest poet must forbear
To make his music, though the hour is one
With perfect beauty ended and begun:
Sometimes his power has left him to despair,
Sometimes he standeth spelled and dumb, though all
Is great around him, though he plainly sees
The beauty, and the grand sound plainly hears.
But if, ere glories vanish, it befall
That his sweet tongue doth loosen; as it frees
He thrills with rapture, hymning through his tears.
William Francis Barnard.