Page:A Treasury of South African Poetry.djvu/40

 At divinest intervals, Wherein bird and music seem The creation of some dream. Oh, but hearken! clear and strong Again the swift notes throb and throng, Rejoicing in a rush of song, Sweet and passionate above All that words can tell of love, Flowing on and on, as tho' It would never cease to flow, For the singer, in his gladness, Sings himself to very madness, And, to share his heart's delight With all around, would flood the night With music, as the perfect moon Floods it with her stintless boon Of splendour, when she hovers bright, Pure and naked in the height Of heaven's dome of crystallite. But not the minstrel's utmost art Can fully to the world impart The song he sings within his heart; And here, here too, the real Reaches not its dream-ideal; And the birth so long o'erwrought By incommunicable thought, Yearns, until his voice is fraught With sobs and tears and notes that wane, And the wild impassioned strain Dies away, nor wakes again. W. E. Hunter.