Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/411

Rh Cleaves closer to life's core; the thing alone

Well-nigh it is, not thought about the thing;

No pictured flight across a painted sky—

The bird itself, the beating of its wing;

The pang that is a cry;

Not human language, but pure ecstasy.

In this my which hath come

As does a lover's litany by some

Miraculous chance, with added song to song,

I trust I have my Lady done no wrong,

My Lady of Melody I worshipt long.

Blameless the artist praises the sweet rose

If in his art he aim not to compose

An image, all inanimate, that seeks

To copy shrewdly those inviolate cheeks

Or the rich, natural odor imitate;

But shows, as best he can, its grace and state,

The love that in him burns for this fair flower,

And all his joy therein, for one sweet hour.

Nor shall the poet subtly strive to phrase

For any heart save his what music says;

For,—as before the autumn skies and woods,—

A meaning gleams through our own human moods:

Yet is the meaning real; and many a wound

Wherewith our spirits are beaten to the ground

Heals 'neath the sanctity of noble sound.

Ah, not to match the music of the wires

Or trembling breath, the instruments and choirs,

But to tell truly how that moves the soul

In the impassionate and rhythmic word,

By poesy's proper art—which must be heard