Page:Near nature's heart; a volume of verse (IA nearnaturesheart00jack).pdf/45

 Ah, let me turn to life all notes so fine; For this my soul must alway pine, With upturned face, For lyric grace.

Quintessence of event is thine and life; What soul hath more On sea or shore, Now or afore? Thy keen eye beams; thy self art rife With music, as no magic flute or fife— Tis varied lore, Forever more.

Thou toilest not to sing like plodding man, Brave bird and bright; Harmonic flight Is thy delight. Whenever was it thou did'st plan Sonatas sweet? Who may so sing or can? Without foresight Thy runic rite.

Could I exchange with thee one blissful hour, Produce thy chart, Feel thrills of heart Of thine, nor part With ecstasy, a-wing from tree to bower, Returning quick, possessing all thy power, With no life mart But music art;

Ah then, would I thy lithesome measures ken, And glad bestow Rich magic flow On all below. Vain wish! What hope for a poor earth denizen? But daring flight, until the poet pen With thee shall glow Like a sun-lit bow.

More sweetly still: thy soul, all song divine, As thou dost give, As I love and live, Is mine; thy nature is forever thine, But by mutation mystic, yet benign, As I with joy receive Thy varied amative, Is also mine, In God's own shrine.