Poesy.
Oh, Poesy! White-winged Goddess thou,
With Heaven's garlands on thy brow;
Earth's beauties thou alone can teach,
And thou alone can Love beseech;
For choicest thoughts are clothed in words
That enter hearts, more keen than swords;
By rythm soft and cadence mild,
They with broken hearts have smiled;
And they who stand beside the bier
Of all their hopes, take courage here,
Because in words more dear than gold,
Life's lessons teach, though worn and old,
In lines of thought so rich and rare,
That bids them hope, and not despair.
In every soul there gleams a drift
Of Poesy, we could but sift
The dross from out the gems, and see
The beauty and the melody.
He made His image not in vain,
'Though sinfulness hath beauty slain;
And He hath taught thee well the art,
Oh, Poesy! that better part;
To twine and mingle with the air
The sweetest scents of blossoms fair;
To tell the trills of tiny birds
In sweetest tunes, in rapture words;
To catch the moonlight's halo fair,
And soften even sunshine's glare.
In everything, as gold refined,
Thou speakest thoughts of higher mind:
To thee we ascribe the greatest power
To beautify the living hour,
Because He speaketh through thy words,
And plays on strings of silver chords,
To idealize the soul of man,
And bid him thus annul the ban;
To forge the fetters and go free
As thou, oh, White-winged Poesy.
With Heaven's garlands on thy brow;
Earth's beauties thou alone can teach,
And thou alone can Love beseech;
For choicest thoughts are clothed in words
That enter hearts, more keen than swords;
By rythm soft and cadence mild,
They with broken hearts have smiled;
And they who stand beside the bier
Of all their hopes, take courage here,
Because in words more dear than gold,
Life's lessons teach, though worn and old,
In lines of thought so rich and rare,
That bids them hope, and not despair.
In every soul there gleams a drift
Of Poesy, we could but sift
The dross from out the gems, and see
The beauty and the melody.
He made His image not in vain,
'Though sinfulness hath beauty slain;
And He hath taught thee well the art,
Oh, Poesy! that better part;
To twine and mingle with the air
The sweetest scents of blossoms fair;
To tell the trills of tiny birds
In sweetest tunes, in rapture words;
To catch the moonlight's halo fair,
And soften even sunshine's glare.
In everything, as gold refined,
Thou speakest thoughts of higher mind:
To thee we ascribe the greatest power
To beautify the living hour,
Because He speaketh through thy words,
And plays on strings of silver chords,
To idealize the soul of man,
And bid him thus annul the ban;
To forge the fetters and go free
As thou, oh, White-winged Poesy.