Poem: The Poet's Songs by R. Crawford

Ingenio arbusta ubi nata sunt non insita. - Naevius

The copse-wood merely sows
   Itself, not planted;
And so it is with those
   Strange and enchanted
Moods that have taken root,
Bloomed, and e'en borne fruit,
Or e'er the poet knew't,

The little songs that fly,
   When the lips parted
Let dreams of ear and eye
   Forth, so warm-hearted:
Be it a joy or pain,
Each to chaunt is fain
What in the parent brain
   Soothed or smarted.

This is the poet's dower,
   None, none completer;
As if 'twere Love's own flower,
   Than all flowers sweeter,
Which, as the seer saith,
Still breathes a faery breath
Where Beauty smiles, though Death
   May come to meet her.

First published in The Lone Hand, 1 June 1908

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on December 1, 2007 6:41 AM.

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