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Making a golden cloud of sorrow,
A hope-lit rainbow out of tears,— Thy heart is certain of to-morrow,
Though 'yond to-day it never peers.
I would more natures were like thine,
So innocently wild and free, Whose sad thoughts, even, leap and shine,
Like sunny wavelets in the sea, Making us mindless of the brine,
In gazing on the brilliancy.
Into the sunshine,
Full of the light, Leaping and fashing,
From morn till night!
Into the moonlight,
Whiter than snow, Waving so flower-like
When the winds blow!
Into the starlight
Rushing in spray, Happy at midnight,
Happy by day!
Ever in motion,
Blithesome and cheery, Still climbing heavenward,
Never aweary ;
Glad of all weathers,
Still seeming best, Upward or downward,
Motion thy rest ;
Full of a nature
Nothing can tame, Changed every moment,
Ever the same ;
Glorious fountain !
Let my heart be
Upward, like thee !
In the old days of awe and keen-eyed wonder,
The Poet's song with blood-warm truth was rife; He saw the mysteries which circle under
The outward shell and skin of daily life.
His soul was led by the eternal law;
But, with calm, godlike eyes, he only saw.
Chief-mourner at the Golden Age's hearse, Nor deem that souls whom Charon grim had ferried
Alone were fitting themes of epic verse: He could believe the promise of to-morrow,
And feel the wondrous meaning of to-day; He had a deeper faith in holy sorrow
Than the world's seeming loss could take away. To know the heart of all things was his duty,
All things did sing to him to make him wise, And, with a sorrowful and conquering beauty,
The soul of all looked grandly from his eyes. He gazed on all within him and without him,
He watched the flowing of Time's steady tide, And shapes of glory floated all about him
And whispered to him, and he prophesied. Than all men he more fearless was and freer,
And all his brethren cried with one accord,“Behold the holy man! Behold the Seer!
Him who hath spoken with the unseen Lord !” He to his heart with large embrace had taken
The universal sorrow of mankind,
The tree of wisdom grew with sturdy rind. He could interpret welĩ the wondrous voices
Which to the calm and silent spirit come; He knew that the One Soul no more rejoices
In the star's anthem than the insect's hum. He in his heart was ever meek and humble, And yet with kingly pomp
his numbers ran, As he foresaw how all things false should crumble
Before the free, uplifted soul of man: And, when he was made full to overflowing
With all the loveliness of heaven and earth, Out rushed his song, like molten iron glowing,
To show God sitting by the humblest hearth. With calmest courage he was ever ready
To teach that action was the truth of thought, And, with strong arm and purpose firm and steady,
An anchor for the drifting world he wrought. So did he make the meanest man partaker
Of all his brother-gods unto him gave; All souls did reverence him and name him Maker,
And when he died heaped temples on his grave. And still his deathless words of light are swimming
Serene throughout the great, deep infinite Of human soul, unwaning and undimming,
To cheer and guide the mariner at night.
But now the Poet is an empty rhymer
Who lies with idle elbow on the grass, And fits his singing, like a cunning timer,
To all men's prides and fancies as they pass. Not his the song, which, in its metre holy,
Chimes with the music of the eternal stars, Humbling the tyrant, lifting up the lowly,
And sending sun through the soul's prison-bars. Maker no more,-0, no! unmaker rather,
For he unmakes who doth not all put forth