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 canst not fathom it. Clear and bright it should be ever, Flowing like a crystal river;

Bright as light, and clear as wind.

II

Dark-brow'd 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. In your eye there is death,

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 chants,
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, tho' 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.

Leaving door and windows wide: Careless tenants they!

III

Close the door, the shutters close,
Or thro' the windows we shall see
The nakedness and vacancy

Of the dark deserted house.

IV

Come away no more of mirth

Is here or merry-making sound. The house was builded of the earth, And shall fall again to ground.

V

Come away; for Life and Thought
Here no longer dwell;

But in a city glorious

A great and distant city-have bought
A mansion incorruptible.

Would they could have stayed with us!

THE DYING SWAN

I

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,

And loudly did lament.

It was the middle of the day. Ever the weary wind went on,

And took the reed-tops as it went.

II

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

One willow over the river wept,

And shook the wave as the wind did sigh; Above in the wind was the swallow,

Chasing itself at its own wild will,

And far thro' the marish green and still