The poet breathes and lives the song he makes. He owns a heart that moves by lonely lakes where wild things are, where wind-whipped waves come in To tumble on the pebbles. Hill and linn To him are things intangible, yet real; Rude in the only beauty that can steal Across the heart before he is aware. He cannot see -- yet knows that it is there. He wraps his heart around the silent song And walks in sunlit morning all day long. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON A PROPOSED TRIP SOUTH by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS THE IRISH RAPPAREES; A PEASANT BALLAD OF 1691 by CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY THE THREE BEST THING: 1. WORK by HENRY VAN DYKE TO BESSIE HAWES, MAY QUEEN by ANNA EMILIA BAGSTAD SONGS OF NIGHT TO MORNING: 2. AND YET by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) CHRISTMASSE DAY by JOSEPH BEAUMONT |