Classic Poem

If near my dwelling, in the city's maze,
A silver-throated bird should come and sing,
From dawn till dark, his wild melodious lays,
Sweeter than thrushes' notes at evening,
And I should own that his clear carolling

Made all the world more beautiful to me,
Raising my soul above its paltry cares
Into a region loftier and more free,
Of purer daylight and diviner airs,
Until my life grew holier unawares;

If I should listen all the summer long,
And hoard his warbled wisdom in my breast,
But yield him, in repayment for his song,
Nor food, nor drink, nor any place of rest,
Not even straws and mosses for a nest,

And even when the autumn skies grew dim,
And all the outer world was bare and chill,
Should fail to comfort or to shelter him,
But only wonder at his feebler trill,
And smile and listen, smile and listen still.

And when his clear voice reached its saddest chord,
Should close my eyes in ecstasy, and say,
" The gift of singing is its own reward, "
And let him sing unfed, day after day,
Until he sang his starving heart away, —

Would it not be a base and cruel wrong
To take his best, and give him naught again?
To make my life the richer by his song,
Yet let him pour his own away in vain,
And die when winter comes, in want and pain?

Yet so the world deals with its singing-birds.
Men call them poets; from their airy height
Who sing their precious thoughts in golden words,
And to our dull lives, dim with mists and blight,
Send down consoling echoes of delight.

O poet! gentlest friend of humankind!
Thy rare anointing helps our ears to hear,
Our eyes to see, where we were deaf and blind,
The myriad chords in Nature's chorus clear,
The myriad beauties of the changing year!

Thou liftest us, by magic all thine own,
Above our work-day being's sordid bound,
And leading us by ways we have not known,
Beyond the dust of life's ignoble round,
Placest our feet upon enchanted ground!

We say, " The poet joys in singing. " So
We let him sing, and starve. And while he sings,
The summer passes, and the winter's snow
Whitens his hair, yet no rewarding brings
To him who gave us eyes and ears and wings.

And if, at last, in grief and penury,
His soaring voice, but now so clear and bold,
Break, with his heart, we smile indulgently,
And say among ourselves, " He groweth old, "
And let him die with hunger, want, and cold.

If even the clown is worthy of his hire,
What earthly gift can be too great for him
Who lights our altars with Promethean fire,
And tunes our souls till through these vapors dim
We almost hear the songs of seraphim?