The Wood-Spring To The Poet

Dawn-cool, dew-cool     Gleams the surface of my pool     Bird haunted, fern enchanted,     Where but tempered spirits rule;     Stars do not trace their mystic lines     In my confines;     I take a double night within my breast     A night of darkened heavens, a night of leaves,     And in the two-fold dark I hear the owl     Puff at his velvet horn     And the wolves howl.     Even daylight comes with a touch of gold     Not overbold,     And shows dwarf-cornel and the twin-flowers,     Below the balsam bowers,     Their tints enamelled in my dew-drop shield.     Too small even for a thirsty fawn     To quench upon,     I hold my crystal at one level     There where you see the liquid bevel     Break in silver and go free     Singing to its destiny.     Give, Poet, give!     Thus only shalt thou live.     Give! for 'tis thy joyous doom     To charm, to comfort, to illume.     Speak to the maiden and the child     With accents deep and mild,     Tell them of the world so wide     In words of wonder and pure pride,     Touched with the rapture of surprise     That dwells in a child angel's eyes,     Awed with the strangeness of new-birth,     When the flaming seraph sent     To lead him into Paradise,     Calls his name with the mother's voice     He has just ceased to hear on earth.     Give to the youth his heart's content,     But power with prudence blent,     Thicken his sinews with love,     With courage his heart prove,     Till over his spirit shall roll     The vast wave of control.     In the cages and dens of strife,     Where men draw breath     Thick with a curse at the dear thing called life,     Give them courage to bear,     Strength to aspire and dare;     Give them hopes rooted in stone,     That the loveliest flowers take on,     Bind on their brows with a gesture free     The palm green bays of liberty.     Give to the mothers of men     The knowledge of joy in pain,     Give them the sense of reward     That grew in the breast of the Lord     On the dawn of the seventh morn;     For 'tis they who re-create the world     Whenever a child is born.     Give, Poet, give!     Give them songs that charm and fill     The soul with an alluring pleasure,     Prelusive to a deeper thrill,     A richer tone, a fuller measure;     Like voices, veiled with hidden treasure,     Of angels on a windy morning,     That first far off, then all together,     Come with a glorious clarion calling;     And when they swoon beneath the spell     Recapture them to hear the echoes     Falling - falling - falling.     To those stoned for the truth     Give ruth;     Give manna for the mourner's mouth     Sovereign as air;     For his heart's drouth     A prayer.     Give to dead souls that mock at life     Aweary of their cankered hearts,     Weary of sleep and weary of strife,     Weary of markets and of arts, -     Helve them a song of life,     Two-edged with joyous life,     Tempered trusty with life,     Proud pointed with wild life,     Plunge it as lightning plunges,     Stab them to life!     Give to those who grieve in secret,     Those who bear the sorrows of earth,     The deep unappeasable longings     Which beset them with throngings and throngings,     (As, on a windless night,     Through the fold of a dark mantle furled,     Gleams on our world, world after unknown world)     Give them peace,     Wide as the veil that hides God's face,     The pure plenitude of space,     In which our universe is but a glittering crease, -     Give them such peace.     Give, Poet, give!     Thus only shalt thou live:     Give as we give who are hidden     In myriad dimples of rock and fern;     Give as we give unbidden     To tarn and rillet and burn,     Where the lake dreams,     Where the fall is hurled,     Striving to sweeten     The oceans of the world.     Should my song for a moment cease,     Silence fall in the woodland peace;     Should I wilfully check the flow     Bubbling and dancing up from below;     Say to my heart be still - be still,     Let the murmur die with the rill;     Then should the glittering, grey sea-things     Sigh as they wallow the under springs;     Where the deep brine-pools used to lie     Deserts vast would stare at the sky,     And even thy rich heart     (O Poet, Poet!)     Even thy rich heart run dry.