' -- the music of the moon Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale.' -- AYLMER'S FIELD. FIVE geese, -- landscape damp and wild, -- A stunted, not too pretty, child, Beneath a battered gingham; Such things, to say the least, require A Muse of more-than-average Fire Effectively to sing 'em. And yet -- Why should they? Souls of mark Have sprung from such; -- e'en Joan of Arc Had scarce a grander duty; Not always ('tis a maxim trite) From righteous sources comes the right, -- From beautiful, the beauty. Who shall decide where seed is sown? Maybe some priceless germ was blown To this unwholesome marish; (And what must grow will still increase, Though cackled round by half the geese And ganders in the parish.) Maybe this homely face may hide A Stael before whose mannish pride Our frailer sex shall tremble; Perchance this audience anserine May hiss (O fluttering Muse of mine!) -- May hiss -- a future Kemble! Or say the gingham shadows o'er An undeveloped Hannah More! -- A latent Mrs. Trimmer!! Who shall affirm it? -- who deny? -- Since of the truth nor you nor I Can catch the faintest glimmer? So then -- Caps off, my Masters all; Reserve your final word, -- recall Your all-too-hasty strictures; Caps off, I say, for Wisdom sees Undreamed potentialities In most unhopeful pictures. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS ON TAGORE by MARIANNE MOORE LET IT BE YOU by SARA TEASDALE TO THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES AT CASTLE WOOD by EMILY JANE BRONTE THE PURPLE COW by FRANK GELETT BURGESS ON THE ORIGIN OF EVIL by JOHN BYROM COMFORT [TO A YOUTH THAT HAD LOST HIS LOVE] by ROBERT HERRICK |