Thou art the deep and mystic sea
That laps against the hurrying feet
Of men and calms their idle fears,
And every being bends the knee
Upon thy strand, for life is sweet
Where blows the wind from unknown spheres.
No more can man in Science trust
Than in the work that thou hast done,
Nor yet so much, for thou art Life.
Thou art the glitter, through the rust,
That shines as through the clouds the sun--
Thou art the motive of the strife.
The poet is the man that sings,
That plays upon the harp's wild strings,
That reads the tale of starry skies,
That soars aloft on seraph's wings,
That, from the stone, the statue brings,
That sees the depths in woman's eyes.
The poet is the man whose brush
Can paint with words, that flush
To cheek doth bring,
Whose canvas is the human heart--
He makes the whole world sing.
Poetry is Life's wild song,
The voice of right, the cry of wrong,
The sign of fairer days.