Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/406

378 II

No poet he who knows not the great joy

That pulses in the flow and rush of rhythm,—

Rhythm which is the seed and life of life,

And of all art the root, and branch, and bloom,—

Knows not the strength that comes when vibrant thought

Beats 'gainst the bounds of fixèd time and space;

For law unto the master is pure freedom,

The prison-house a garden of delight.

So doth the blown breath from the bugle's walls

Issue in most triumphant melody;

So doth the impassioned poet's perfect verse,

Confined in law eternal, mate the stars.

TO THE POET

not thy listening spirit be abashed

By the majestic ranks of ancient bards

Or all the clarion singers of thy day:

For in thy true and individual song

Thou art a voice of nature; as the wind,

And cries of moving waters, and all shows

And speaking symbols of the universe

Are but the glorious sound and utterance

Of the mysterious power that spake the Word—

The immense first word that filled with splendid light

And vibrant potency the house of life;

Whose candles are a million, million stars,

Whose windows look on gulfs unthinkable

That bound our world. Think not on thine own self,