NOT Wordsworth's genius, Pestalozzi's love, The stream have sounded of clear infancy. Baptismal waters from the Head above These babes I foster daily are to me; I dip my pitcher in these living springs And draw, from depths below, sincerity; Unsealed, mine eyes behold all outward things Arrayed in splendors of divinity. What mount of vision can with mine compare? Not Roman Jove nor yet Olympian Zeus Darted from loftier ether through bright air One spark of holier fire for human use. Glad tidings thence these angels downward bring, As at their birth the heavenly choirs do sing. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...YOU SAY YOU SAID by MARIANNE MOORE TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN: THE FIRST DAY: THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW STILL FALLS THE RAIN; THE RAIDS, 1940. NIGHT AND DAWN by EDITH SITWELL ON THE PICTURE OF LUCRETIA STABBING HERSELF by PHILIP AYRES THE DARK OF THE MOON by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE ADVICE TO MY YOUNG WIFE by MAXWELL BODENHEIM MAXIMS FOR THE OLD HOUSE: THE THRESHOLD by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |