Classic Poem

In “The German Minstrel-forest”
Whoso can, should sing his lay;
Joy and life are shewn whenever
Sounds a voice from every spray.

Minstrel-art is not restricted
To a small and glorious band;
Scattered are its seeds prolific
Over all the German land.

All thy heart's most mighty passions
Boldly tell in manly tone!
Be thy love revealed in whispers,
Be thy wrath in thunders shewn!

Though not all thy life thou singest,
Sing when youth is fierce and strong;
Only in the month of blossoms
Nightingales outpour their song.

Canst thou not collect in volumes
What the hours, in passing, teach;
Toss the leaves for winds to scatter,
Trust that youth will snatch at each.

Fare ye well, ye arts mysterious,
Necromancy, Alchemy;
Formal rules are weak to bind us,
Now our art is Poesy.

Sacred still we deem the spirits,
Though their names like vapours flee;
Worthy still we deem the master,
Though the art to all is free.

Not in chilly marble-statues,
Not in ruined fanes abides,
But in dewy groves, the Spirit
Who o'er German art presides.