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And vagrant melodies the winds which bore
Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field-flower,
Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew
Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew
And bravely furnished all abroad to fling
To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring
So many minds did gird their orbs with beams,
Heaven flowed upon the soul in many dreams
Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world
And through the wreaths of floating dark upcurled
And Freedom reared in that august sunrise
When rites and forms before his burning eyes
'There was no blood upon her maiden robes
But round about the circles of the globes
And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame
All evil dreams of power,--a sacred name.
Her words did gather thunder as they ran,
So was their meaning to her words. No sword
But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word
THE POET'S MIND.
VEX not thou the poet's mind
For thou canst not fathom it.
Dark-browed sophist, come not anear;
Holy water will I pour
Into every spicy flower
Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around.
There is frost in your breath
Which would blight the plants.
From the groves within
The wild-bird's din.
In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants,
It would fall to the ground if you came in.
With a low melodious thunder; All day and all night it is ever drawn From the brain of the purple mountain Which stands in the distance yonder: It springs on a level of bowery lawn, And the mountain draws it from Heaven above, And it sings a song of undying love;
And yet, though its voice be so clear and full, You never would hear it-your ears are so dull; So keep where you are: you are foul with sin; It would shrink to the earth if you came in.
THE DYING SWAN.
THE plain was grassy, wild and bare,
It was the middle of the day.
Ever the weary wind went on,
Some blue peaks in the distance rose,
One willow over the river wept,
And far through the marish green and still
The tangled watercourses slept,
Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow.
The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul
Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear
With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold,
To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star.
Now is done thy long day's work;
Shadows of the silver birk
Sweep the green that folds thy grave.
Thee nor carketh care nor slander;
Light and shadow ever wander
Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed;
Thou wilt never raise thine head
Crocodiles wept tears for thee;
Rain makes music in the tree
O'er the green that folds thy grave.
Round thee blow, self-pleached deep
These in every shower creep
Through the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave.
The gold-eyed kingcups fine,