IT may be that the Poet is as a Spring, That, from the deep of being, pulsing forth, Proffers the hot and thirsty sons of earth Refreshment unbestowed by sage or king. Still is he but an utterance, -- a lone thing, -- Sad-hearted in his very voice of mirth, -- Too often shivering in the thankless dearth Of those affections he the best can sing. But Thou, O lively Brook! whose fruitful way Brings with it mirror'd smiles, and green, and flowers, -- Child of all scenes, companion of all hours, Taking the simple cheer of every day, -- How little is to thee, thou happy Mind, The solitary parent Spring behind! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FITZ-GREENE HALLECK, AT THE UNVEILING OF HIS STATUE by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER RED TREASURE by CAROLYN AUSTIN THROUGH THE WATERS by ELIZA COOK DEATH'S LECTURE AT THE FUNERAL OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN by RICHARD CRASHAW EVEN IN THE GRAVE by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE THE ETERNAL CALVARY by DIGBY MACKWORTH DOLBEN EPIGRAM: RALPHIUS by JOHN DONNE |