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|A Poet’s Fancies|
To Any Poet
Thou who singest through the earth|
All the earth’s wild creatures fly thee;
Everywhere thou marrest mirth,
Dumbly they defy thee;
There is something they deny thee.
Pines thy fallen nature ever|
For the unfallen Nature sweet.
But she shuns thy long endeavour,
Though her flowers and wheat
Throng and press thy pausing feet.
Though thou tame a bird to love thee,|
Press thy face to grass and flowers,
All these things reserve above thee
Secrets in the bowers,
Secrets in the sun and showers.
Sing thy sorrow, sing thy gladness,|
In thy songs must wind and tree
Bear the fictions of thy sadness,
For their truth is not for thee.
Wait, and many a secret nest,|
Many a hoarded winter-store
Will be hidden on thy breast.
Things thou longest for
Will not fear or shun thee more.
Thou shalt intimately lie|
In the roots of flowers that thrust
Upwards from thee to the sky,
With no more distrust
When they blossom from thy dust.
Silent labours of the rain|
Shall be near thee, reconciled;
Little lives of leaves and grain,
All things shy and wild,
Tell thee secrets, quiet child.
Earth, set free from thy fair fancies|
And the art thou shalt resign,
Will bring forth her rue and pansies
Unto more divine
Thoughts than any thoughts of thine.
Nought will fear thee, humbled creature.|
There will lie thy mortal burden
Pressed unto the heart of Nature,
Songless in a garden,
With a long embrace of pardon.
Then the truth all creatures tell,|
And His will Whom thou entreatest
Shall absorb thee; there shall dwell
Silence, the completest
Of thy poems, last and sweetest.
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Lane Core Jr. (email@example.com)
Created April 13, 2001; not revised.