. Fire and air . (0 ^ktxi^intt — To W. S. Brassington, Esq., Stratford Librarian WHERE, Sweet Muses, are thy Poets born? Neath lattice-leaded windows where the mornSmiles on the babe that knows not day from night,Nor yet has thought or passion or delight?—In antique houses built of sand and clayInlaid with oak, all white, and brown, and grey,Where beauty born of nature never strayed?Nay, nay! For poets are not born, but madeBy all the sweet and subtle influenceThat falls upon the windows of their sense,—The rocking cradle, childhoods wildwood ways,And Summers bloom, and Autumns golden days,—Th
. Fire and air . (0 ^ktxi^intt — To W. S. Brassington, Esq., Stratford Librarian WHERE, Sweet Muses, are thy Poets born? Neath lattice-leaded windows where the mornSmiles on the babe that knows not day from night,Nor yet has thought or passion or delight?—In antique houses built of sand and clayInlaid with oak, all white, and brown, and grey,Where beauty born of nature never strayed?Nay, nay! For poets are not born, but madeBy all the sweet and subtle influenceThat falls upon the windows of their sense,—The rocking cradle, childhoods wildwood ways,And Summers bloom, and Autumns golden days,—The tongues in trees, songs in the running brooks,Love, laughter, labor, and the lore of ftl/ ING of our Golden Age of Poetry,^1\ That left us heirs to thy rich treasury Of golden leaves, of fine-wrought, living gold;Thou generous Midas that didst woo to theeAll Natures wealth, all Lifes sweet luxury,And all the fantasy of story told:Thy touch was fire and air to earth and sea;Thy spirit was the flame of alchemy That turned to gold the mystic legends old;Thou, from the glittering stream of historyHast plucked pure gold, gilded realityWith innocent illusions, from lifes coldCrystal melted the vein of tragedy,—Fused the bright metal, tried its purity,And into silken leaves the fire-ball rolled;Shredded the gold-leafs thin transparency,Spun out the threads of fate and destiny With touch the Goddess Clotho might think bold;Woven of poesy, a tapestry, Fine as the web of thought, as fancy free,—A finery the Orient never sold:Thou, Wealthiest of the Wealthiest, gavest us freeThy book of life, thy golden treasury, Leaving us all the wealth a world would hold. j§*i|£U££ /J
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Keywords: ., bo, bookcentury1900, bookdecade1910, bookpublishernp, bookyear1914
