IT may be that the Poet is as a Spring, That, from the deep of being, pulsing forth, Proffers the hot and thirsty sons of earth Refreshment unbestowed by sage or king. Still is he but an utterance, -- a lone thing, -- Sad-hearted in his very voice of mirth, -- Too often shivering in the thankless dearth Of those affections he the best can sing. But Thou, O lively Brook! whose fruitful way Brings with it mirror'd smiles, and green, and flowers, -- Child of all scenes, companion of all hours, Taking the simple cheer of every day, -- How little is to thee, thou happy Mind, The solitary parent Spring behind! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN EXPATIATION ON THE COMBINING OF WEATHERS AT THIRTY .... by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE DISPUTE OF THE HEART AND BODY OF FRANCOIS VILLON by FRANCOIS VILLON SIBLINGS OF A GRAYER SKY by NAVEED ALAM THE CYNOTAPH by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM PSALM 61 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE YOUR NEIGHBOR by H. HOWARD BIGGAR |