Like a clear fountain, his desire Exults and leaps toward the light, In every drop it says "Aspire!" Striving for more ideal height; And as the fountain, falling thence, Crawls baffled through the common gutter, So, from his speech's eminence, He shrinks into the present tense, Unkinged by foolish bread and butter. Yet smile not, worldling, for in deeds Not all of life that 's brave and wise is; He strews an ampler future's seeds, By soul the soul's gains must be wrought, The Ideal hath its higher duties. ON A PORTRAIT OF DANTE BY GIOTTO. CAN this be thou who, lean and pale, With such immitigable eye Didst look upon those writhing souls in bale, And saw Francesca, with child's glee, And with proud hands control its fiery prance? With half-drooped lids, and smooth, round brow, And eye remote, that inly sees Fair Beatrice's spirit wandering now In some sea-lulled Hesperides, Thou movest through the jarring street, By her gift-blossom in thy hand, Yet there is something round thy lips Notches the perfect disk with gloom; A something that would banish thee, From men and their unworthy fates, Though Florence had not shut her gates, And grief had loosed her clutch and let thee free. Ah! he who follows fearlessly The beckonings of a poet-heart Shall wander, and without the world's decree, A banished man in field and mart; Harder than Florence' walls the bar Which with deaf sternness holds him far From home and friends, till death's release, And makes his only prayer for peace, Like thine, scarred veteran of a lifelong war! ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND'S CHILD. DEATH never came so nigh to me before, Nor showed me his mild face: oft had I mused Of folded hands, closed eyes, and heart at rest, Of faults forgotten, and an inner place |