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Posts Tagged ‘poet’

………………February 16, 1874

The painter’s and the poet’s fame
Shed their twinned lustre round his name,
To gild our story-teller’s art,
Where each in turn must play his part. 

What scenes from Wilkie’s pencil sprung,
The minstrel saw but left unsung!
What shapes the pen of Collins drew,
No painter clad in living hue! 

But on our artist’s shadowy screen
A stranger miracle is seen
Than priest unveils or pilgrim seeks, –
The poem breathes, the picture speaks! 

And so his double name comes true,
They christened better than they knew,
And Art proclaims him twice her son, –
Painter and poet, both in one!

 

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…………………….Milton

I pace the sounding sea-beach and behold
How the voluminous billows roll and run,
Upheaving and subsiding, while the sun
Shines through their sheeted emerald far unrolled,
And the ninth wave, slow gathering fold by fold
All its loose-flowing garments into one,
Plunges upon the shore, and floods the dun
Pale reach of sands, and changes them to gold.
So in majestic cadence rise and fall
The mighty undulations of thy song,
O sightless bard, England’s Maeonides!
And ever and anon, high over all
Uplifted, a ninth wave superb and strong,
Floods all the soul with its melodious seas.

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   The Poet And His Songs

As the birds come in the Spring,
   We know not from where;
As the stars come at evening
   From depths of the air; 

As the rain comes from the cloud,
   And the brook from the ground;
As suddenly, low or loud,
   Out of silence a sound; 

As the grape comes to the vine,
   The fruit to the tree;
As the wind comes to the pine,
   And the tide to the sea; 

As come the white sails of ships
   O’er the ocean’s verge;
As comes the smile to the lips,
   The foam to the surge; 

So come to the Poet his songs,
   All hitherward blow
From the misty realm, that belongs
   To the vast Unknown. 

His, and not his, are the lays
   He sings; and their fame
Is his, and not his; and the praise
   And the pride of a name. 

For voices pursue him by day,
   And haunt him by night,
And he listens, and needs must obey,
   When the Angel says, “Write!”

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The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist:
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me,
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life’s endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gush’d from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start.

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice;
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be fill’d with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

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