Classic and Contemporary Poetry
PRELUDE TO A BOOK OF MUSIC, by RICHARD WATSON GILDER Poet's Biography First Line: Without intent, I find a book I've writ Last Line: Hoping these echoed tones some wounded heart may bless. Subject(s): Music & Musicians | ||||||||
WITHOUT intent, I find a book I've writ And music is the pleasant theme of it; For though I can no music make, I trust Here's proof I love it. Though no reasoning fine Should any ask to show this art divine, Yet have I known even poets who refuse To name pure music as an equal muse. If music pleased them, 't was not deeply felt, And in its charms they deemed it shame to melt; For that, they held, it is an art where might Even children give its votaries delight, And therefore lacking in the things of mind. But 't is not argued well. There is a kind Of music that a little child can give, Echoing great masters; but the masters live Not in such echo -- elfish, immature; 'T is but a part of them. Ah, be ye sure Though lovely, not the loveliest; that must wait For him who noble moods can recreate With solemn, subtle, and deep-thoughted art That wins the mind or ere it takes the heart. For that a child may gracious music make Is but a sign that music doth partake Of something deep, primeval, that began When God dreamed of himself, and fashioned man. 'T is near the source of being; it repeats The vibrancy that runs in rhythmic beats Through all the shaken universe; and though Its language shall take not the ebb and flow Of speech articulate, it is that tone 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 BOOK OF MUSIC which hath come As doth 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 worshiped 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 brief 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 Even as music is! Not to forget The viol and the harp, the clarinet, The booming organ; too, the intertwined Voices wherewith the sounding, rich clavier Under the master's hand enchants the ear, -- If so may be to catch a fleeting strain And in new art imprison it again! Then let him list to music who would rhyme; For every art, though separate, may learn, From the great souls in all, how to make burn Brighter the light of beauty through all time. And scorn not thou to read of music's power Over one soul that in great humbleness His memory brings of many a happy hour, Hoping these echoed tones some wounded heart may bless. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LINER NOTES TO AN IMAGINARY PLAYLIST by TERRANCE HAYES VARIATIONS: 13 by CONRAD AIKEN BELIEVE, BELIEVE by BOB KAUFMAN ROUND ABOUT MIDNIGHT by BOB KAUFMAN MUSIC by CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES THE POWER OF MUSIC by CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES |
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