MAKING POETRY by FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL

LITTLE one, what are you doing,
Sitting on the window-seat?
Laughing to yourself and writing,
Some right merry thought inditing,
Balancing with swinging feet.

"'T is some poetry I'm making,
Though I never tried before:
Four whole lines! I'll read them to you.
Do you think them funny, do you?
Shall I try to make some more?

"I should like to be a poet,
Writing verses every day;
Then to you I'd always bring them,
You should make a tune and sing them;
'T would be pleasanter than play."

Think you, darling, nought is needed
But the paper and the ink,
And a pen to trace so lightly,
While the eye is beaming brightly,
All the pretty things we think?

There's a secret -- can you trust me?
Do not ask me what it is!
Perhaps some day you too will know it,
If you live to be a poet,
All its agony and bliss.

Poetry is not a trifle,
Lightly thought and lightly made;
Not a fair and scentless flower,
Gayly cultured for an hour,
Then as gayly left to fade.

'T is not stringing rhymes together
In a pleasant true accord;
Not the music of the metre,
Not the happy fancies, sweeter
Than a flower bell, honey-stored.

'T is the essence of existence,
Rarely rising to the light;
And the songs that echo longest,
Deepest, fullest, truest, strongest,
With your life-blood you will write.

With your life-blood. None will know it,
You will never tell them how.
Smile! and they will never guess it:
Laugh! and you will not confess it
By your paler cheek and brow.

There must be the tightest tension
Ere the tone be full and true;
Shallow lakelets of emotion
Are not like the spirit-ocean,
Which reflects the purest blue.

Every lesson you shall utter,
If the charge indeed be yours,
First is gained by earnest learning,
Carved in letters deep and burning
On a heart that long endures.

Day by day that wondrous tablet
Your life-poem shall receive,
By the hand of Joy or Sorrow;
But the pen can never borrow
Half the records that they leave.

You will only give a transcript
Of a life-line here and there,
Only just a spray-wreath springing
From the hidden depths, and flinging
Broken rainbows on the air.

Still, if you but copy truly,
'T will be poetry indeed,
Echoing many a heart's vibration,
Rather love than admiration
Earning as your priceless meed.

Will you seek it? Will you brave it?
'T is a strange and solemn thing,
Learning long before your teaching,
Listening long before your preaching,
Suffering before you sing.

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