THE SONNET
I. TO A CRITIC
“It is but cunning artifice,” you say? “To it no throb of nature answereth? It hath no living pulse, no vital breath, This puppet, fashioned in an elder day, Through whose strait lips no heart can cry or pray?” O deaf and blind of soul, these words that saith! If that thine ear is dull, what hindereth That quicker ears should hear the bugles play And the trump call to battle? Since the stars First sang together, and the exulting skies Thrilled to their music, earth hath never heard, Above the tumult of her worldly jars, Or loftier songs or prayers than those that rise Where the high sonnet soareth like a bird!
II. TO A POET
Thou who wouldst wake the sonnet’s silver lyre, Make thine hands clean! Then, as on eagles’ wings, Above the soiling touch of sordid things, Bid thy soul soar till, mounting high and higher, It feels the glow of pure celestial fire, Bathes in clear light, and hears the song that rings Through heaven’s high arches when some angel brings Gifts to the Throne, on wings that never tire! It hath a subtile music, strangely sweet, Yet all unmeet for dance or roundelay, Or idle love that fadeth like a flower. It is the voice of hearts that strongly beat, The cry of souls that grandly love and pray, The trumpet-peal that thrills the battle-hour!
AT REST
“‘When Greek meets Greek,’ you know,” he sadly said, “‘Then comes the tug of war.’ I deem him great, And own him wise and good. Yet adverse fate Hath made us enemies. If I were dead, And buried deep with grave-mould on my head, I still believe that, came he soon or late Where I was lying in my last estate, My dust would quiver at his lightest tread!” The slow years passed; and one fair summer night, When the low sun was reddening all the west, I saw two grave-mounds, where the grass was bright, Lying so near each other that the crest Of the same wave touched each with amber light. But, ah, dear hearts! how undisturbed their rest!
TOO WIDE!
O mighty Earth, thou art too wide, to wide! Too vast thy continents, too broad thy seas, Too far thy prairies stretching fair as these Now reddening in the sunset’s crimson tide! Sundered by thee how have thy children cried Each to some other, until every breeze Has borne a burden of fond messages That all unheard in thy lone wastes have died! Draw closer, O dear Earth, thy hills that soar Up to blue skies such countless leagues apart! Bid thou thine awful spaces smaller grow! Compass thy billows with a narrower shore, That yearning lips may meet, heart beat to heart, And parted souls forget their lonely woe!