VII.

If Thou hadst been a Poet! On my heart

The thought dashed. It recoiled, as, with the gift,

Light-blinded, and joy-saddened, so bereft.

And the hot fountain-tears, with sudden start,

Thronged to mine eyes, as if with that same smart

The husk of vision had in twain been cleft,

Its hidden soul in naked beauty left,

And we beheld thee, Nature, as thou art.

O Poet, Poet, Poet! at thy feet

I should have lien, sainted with listening;

My pulses answering aye, in rhythmic beat,

Each parting word that with melodious wing

Moved on, creating still my being sweet;

My soul thy harp, thy word the quivering string.