A Poet's Lesson

Poet, my master, come, tell me true,         And how are your verses made?      Ah! that is the easiest thing to do: -      You take a cloud of a silvern hue,      A tender smile or a sprig of rue,         With plenty of light and shade,      And weave them round in syllables rare,         With a grace and skill divine;      With the earnest words of a pleading prayer,      With a cadence caught from a dulcet air,      A tale of love and a lock of hair,         Or a bit of a trailing vine.      Or, delving deep in a mine unwrought,         You find in the teeming earth      The golden vein of a noble thought;      The soul of a statesman still unbought,      Or a patriot's cry with anguish fraught         For the land that gave him birth.      A brilliant youth who has lost his way         On the winding road of life;      A sculptor's dream of the plastic clay;      A painter's soul in a sunset ray;      The sweetest thing a woman can say,         Or a struggling nation's strife.      A boy's ambition; a maiden's star,         Unrisen, but yet to be;      A glimmering light that shines afar      For a sinking ship on a moaning bar;         An empty sleeve; a veteran's scar;      Or a land where men are free.      And if the poet's hand be strong      To weave the web of a deathless song,      And if a master guide the pen      To words that reach the hearts of men,      And if the ear and the touch be true,      It's the easiest thing in the world to do!