Sonnet "concerning the True Poet"
Whom blesseth most the gentle dew of heaven?
Whose heart is sweetest thrill'd by Nature's song?
Who in still musings moonlight bowers among
Drinks purest light from the soft star of Even?
Is it not he who knows whence each is given?
Who, not unweeting of that Ocean source
Whence springs each stream of glory, where in course
This lower world first compass'd, all are driven,
Sees upon each fair thing the stamp and seal
Of Him who made it; hears and owns His voice
Linking all harmonies? but most his heart
The impulse of its master-key doth feel,
And in the consciousness of Heaven rejoice,
When woman duly plays her angel-part.
Whose heart is sweetest thrill'd by Nature's song?
Who in still musings moonlight bowers among
Drinks purest light from the soft star of Even?
Is it not he who knows whence each is given?
Who, not unweeting of that Ocean source
Whence springs each stream of glory, where in course
This lower world first compass'd, all are driven,
Sees upon each fair thing the stamp and seal
Of Him who made it; hears and owns His voice
Linking all harmonies? but most his heart
The impulse of its master-key doth feel,
And in the consciousness of Heaven rejoice,
When woman duly plays her angel-part.
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