Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world

Like one great garden showed,

And through the wreaths of floating dark upcurled Rare sunrise flowed.

And Freedom reared in that august sunrise

Her beautiful bold brow,

When rites and forms before his burning eyes
Melted like snow.

There was no blood upon her maiden robes
Sunned by those orient skies;

But round about the circles of the globes
Of her keen eyes

And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame

WISDOM, a name to shake

All evil dreams of power

a sacred name.

And when she spake,

Her words did gather thunder as they ran,
And as the lightning to the thunder
Which follows it, riving the spirit of man,

Making earth wonder,

So was their meaning to her words. No sword Of wrath her right arm whirled,

But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word

She shook the world.

THE POET'S MIND.

I.

VEX not thou the poet's mind
With thy shallow wit:
Vex not thou the poet's mind;

For thou can'st not fathom it
Clear and bright it should be ever,
Flowing like a crystal river;

Bright as light, and clear as wind.

II.

Dark-browed sophist, come not anear; All the place is holy ground; Hollow smile and frozen sneer

Come not here.

Holy water will I pour

Into every spicy flower

Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around.

The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer.
your eye there is death,

In

There is frost in your breath

Which would blight the plants.

Where you stand you cannot hear

From the groves within

The wild-bird's din.

In the heart of the garden the merry bird chaunts, It would fall to the ground if you came in.

In the middle leaps a fountain

Like sheet lightning,

Ever brightening

With a low melodious thunder;

All day and all night it is ever drawn

From the brain of the purple mountain
Which stands in the distance yonder :
It springs on a level of bowery lawn,
And the mountain draws it from Heaven above,
And it sings a song of undying love;

And yet, though its voice be so clear and full,
You never would hear it-your ears are so dull;
So keep where you are: you are foul with sin;
It would shrink to the earth if you came in.

THE DYING SWAN.

THE plain was grassy, wild and bare, Wide, wild, and open to the air, Which had built up everywhere

An under-roof of doleful gray. With an inner voice the river ran, Adown it floated a dying swan,

Which loudly did lament.

It was the middle of the day.

Ever the weary wind went on, And took the reed-tops as it went.

Some blue peaks in the distance rose, And white against the cold-white sky Shone out their crowning snows.