Oh, birds, winged voices! children of the light! Whose song is love, whose love is melody; Shedding o'er hedge, and field, and bush, and tree, Your tuneful joy and musical delight, Making the air, the earth, the heavens bright; Melodious, tender, sad and gay and free; By all these gifts true poets born are ye; Love circumscribes alone your restless flight. Poets, I say? Ah, not like poets here, That wander forth alone, companionless; Whose lays are wrung from them by care and pain; Who sing, while blinded by the hot salt tear. Not such are ye; but free from all distress, Ye, with the sunlight, range o'er land and main. |