The Spirit Of Poetry
All things are Hers. Concealed or manifest,
Found or unfound, Her Spirit lives in each—
Dumb till the Master-Soul its secret guessed
And gave its silence speech.
All things are Hers. She is the Crystal Queen
Of all men’s vision, and the moving breath
Which through the greyness of the sordid scene
Gloweth and quickeneth.
She is the flower-maid of the dreaming noon,
The goddess of the temple of the night;
Where the berg-turrets gleam beneath the moon
She builds Her throne of white.
She knows the Battle-Hymn of mighty wars
When wind and ocean thunder on the strand.
She knows the song the lonely river-bars
Sing to the listening land.
Armoured and helmeted and spurred for fight
She fires men’s hearts to right the bitter wrong;
Yet sits She weaving of a summer night
Flowers of a bridal song.
She gives the temper that has made men great
And fashioned heroes out of common clay,
And welded firm into a mighty State
The tribes of yesterday.
Youth’s radiant vision, and the dreamy dawn
Of the soft lovelight in a maiden’s eyes,
And holiest joys of motherhood, are drawn
By Her from Paradise.
She knows the Wheel-Song of the Stars that run
Their glittering courses through the blue abyss.
Ere the round earth fell flaming from the sun
Her spirit was, and is.
She is the Phoeix, ever making true
The dim tradition of the misty morn.
The crucible of science gives anew
Her fairy form re-born.
All things are Hers—but not with equal word
Dowers She the pilgrims of the sacred shrine.
Only the Great Interpreters have heard
Her melodies divine.
All things are Hers, and so to Her I bring
Songs of the dreams that haunt me on my way—
I who scarce hear the rustle of Her wing
Borne on the wind away!