A POET'S LESSON

Poet, my master, come, tell me true,

And how are your verses made?

Ah! that is the easiest thing to do:—

You take a cloud of a silvern hue,

A tender smile or a sprig of rue,

With plenty of light and shade,

And weave them round in syllables rare,

With a grace and skill divine;

With the earnest words of a pleading prayer,

With a cadence caught from a dulcet air,

A tale of love and a lock of hair,

Or a bit of a trailing vine.

Or, delving deep in a mine unwrought,

You find in the teeming earth

The golden vein of a noble thought;

The soul of a statesman still unbought,

Or a patriot's cry with anguish fraught

For the land that gave him birth.

A brilliant youth who has lost his way

On the winding road of life;

A sculptor's dream of the plastic clay;

A painter's soul in a sunset ray;

The sweetest thing a woman can say,

Or a struggling nation's strife.

A boy's ambition; a maiden's star,

Unrisen, but yet to be;

A glimmering light that shines afar

For a sinking ship on a moaning bar;

An empty sleeve; a veteran's scar;

Or a land where men are free.

And if the poet's hand be strong

To weave the web of a deathless song,

And if a master guide the pen

To words that reach the hearts of men,

And if the ear and the touch be true,

It's the easiest thing in the world to do!