Thou, whom song was given, sing In the German poets' wood! When all boughs with music ring, Life is sweet and pleasure good. Nay, this art doth not belong To a small and haughty band; Seattered are the seeds of song All about the German land. Music set thy passions free From the heart's confining cage! Let thy love like murmurs be And like thunder-storms thy rage! Singest thou not all thy days, Joy of youth should make thee sing. Nightingales pour forth their lays In the blooming months of spring! Though in books they hold not fast What the hour imparts to thee, Stray leaves to the breezes cast! Youth will seize them gratefully. Fare thou well, thou secret lore: Necromancy, alchemy! Formulas shall bind no more, And our art is poesy. Names we deem but empty air, Spirits we revere alone; Though we honour masters rare, Art is free--it is our own! Not in haunts of marble chill, Temples drear where ancients trod,-- Nay, in oaks on woody hill Lives and moves the German God. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE POLAR QUEST by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON PEACE; A STUDY by CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY THE SELF-UNSEEING by THOMAS HARDY THE PAST IS THE PRESENT by MARIANNE MOORE SING-SONG; A NURSERY RHYME BOOK: 20 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI |