HENRIK IBSEN
Lone as the lone north star,
Stern as the rocks that guard the sanctity of his home,
Pure as the white snow of his land,
And beauteous his visions like the fjords
At each turn of the mariner's helm.
The lofty glaciers engage his eyes,
As life's height the sight of his mind;
And his Imagination, expansive as the sea,
Tries to push the boundary-line of the sky, his Soul,
Further and further, where a new North Star
Awaits his exploring eye.
31
AFTER HEARING "MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME"
I know not whose the words,
Nor the maker of their music;
In my sorrow-laden heart
The aroma of its pathetic art
Like the soothing breath of dream.
Joy borrows its charm from sorrow;
Sorrow feverish with the color of joy;
An opaque crystal, a stone on life's string
Made of music that doth ring
As the stars on the lyre of night.
A pain it is, made perfect;
A call made clear by the voice of peace;
A silver stream of song
Darkened, yet floweth on and on
Between black banks of memory, into the Soul's white home.