Though nought is lost, yet it is well
To let the fiery letter
Find such a fate, for it will quell
Things that destroy the better.
And this advice I freely give:
Write down your spirit’s frowning,
For three days let it lonely live,
Then kill it all by drowning.
GOD’S TRUTH-TELLER
The poet is no liar. No!
Though truth may not be told
By him, just so, and so,—
By weight, and measure, or the cold
And soulless numbers—
By facts, so called, that cloy and cumber
The Psyche in its flight
Into that heavenly light
Of things, which children know,—
And poets see and feel
In beauty, which is truth,
Whose life-inspiring glow
Sometimes doth steal
Upon him, as does love upon the youth,
And moves his heart to song—
The music of his being,
Whose notes are pure and strong,
While he is seeing
God’s Seraphims, and all
The earth replete with glory,—
And hears the call
From ages hoary
To his own day, and times to be—
The voice of God;
Truth-teller he,
Despite the rod
Of proud custodians
Of labelled “scientific facts” sans
Poetry,—
Before whom he refuses to bend knee;—
Truth-teller he, because to him was given
The vision to behold—the glory-trail of heaven,
In little things and great,
In life, and death, and destiny, and fate.
THE DEATH OF THE POET
(Suggested by Gottschalk’s composition, “The Dying Poet.”)
Life’s checkered dream is over,
Ended its joys and woes;
Silent the bard and the lover
Down to the valley goes;
Down to the dark, broad river
Wanders his restless soul,
Into the vast Forever,
Which he so oft heard call,—
Ever, forever,
Singing through each and all.
Over him spirits hover,
Spirits who knew his life,
Knew all that holy power—
Wasted in grief and strife,—
Knew how he gave, not heeding
Sordidness, greed and sin,
Knew how his heart was bleeding,
Only the true to win,—
Ever, forever,
Living within.
Music too vast for language,
Bursting the bonds and bounds,
Now shall be free from anguish,
Free from discordant sounds,
Finding what here it never
Reached in its noblest fight,
The cadence of life’s forever,
The glory of deathless light,—
Ever, forever,
Leading him through the night.
Pale now the brow of the singer,
Undecked by laurel-wreath,
Only a few friends linger,
To whom he his songs bequeathed;
But a host is waiting yonder,
Whose praise on his ears doth burst,
And the soul, who does lonely wander,
Shall quench its immortal thirst,—
Ever, forever,
And the things that are last shall be first.