Beauty to him is Paradise He never tires of lustrous eyes; His lands are never bought nor sold- THE BARD WILLIAM BLAKE Hear the voice of the Bard, Who present, past and future sees; Whose ears have heard The Holy Word That walked among the ancient trees. From A LOST GOD FRANCIS W. BOURDILLON Ah, happy who have seen Him, whom the world What is it makes a poet's utterance strong Nebulous, indistinguished, which the eyes Elysian stands in the waste of sea? Such have I seen, such phantasms all my life Have followed, knowing somewhere they must lie Discoverable-in our eyes unreal, Yet real somewhere. THE POET ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING The Of daily and nightly sights of sun and moon! THE PEASANT POET JOHN CLARE He loved the brook's soft sound, To him the dismal storm appeared And where the evening rock was reared Stood Moses with his rod. And everything his eyes surveyed, Were creatures God Almighty made, He loved them for His sake A silent man in life's affairs, A peasant in his daily cares, THE POET'S CALL THOMAS CURTIS CLARK By day the fields and meadows cry; The roses tremble as he nears, FRAGMENT WILLIAM COWPER Pity, Religion has so seldom found A skilful guide into poetic ground! The flowers would spring where'er she deigned to stray, And every muse attend her on her way. THOUGHT CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH Thought is deeper than all speech, We are spirits clad in veils; Man by man was never seen; Heart to heart was never known; We are columns left alone Of a temple once complete. Like the stars that gem the sky, In our light we scattered lie; All is thus but starlight here. What is a social company But a babbling summer stream? What is our wise philosophy But the glancing of a dream? Only when the sun of love Melts the scattered stars of thought, Only when we live above What the dim-eyed world hath taught, Only when our souls are fed By the fount which gave them birth, And by inspiration led Which they never drew from earth, We, like parted drops of rain, Swelling till they meet and run, Melting, flowing into one. INSPIRATIONS WILLIAM JAMES DAWSON Sometimes, I know not why, nor how, nor whence Of common life slips from me. Would you ask That babble to the sea; pathetic looks Of closing eyes that in a darkened room O mystic sense of sudden quickening! Hope's lark-song rings, or life's deep undertone THE DREAM Firdausi (From the Persian) Translated by A. V. Williams Jackson I a. My heart was fired, as from his sight it turned 'May I lay hand upon that book some day And tell, in my own words, that ancient lay!' Countless the persons whom I sought for aid, |