| Poem: |
I broke the spell that held me long,
the dear, dear witchery of song.
I said, the poet's idle lore
shall waste my prime of years no more,
for poetry, though heavenly born,
consorts with poverty and scorn.
I broke the spell--nor deemed its power
could fetter me another hour.
Ah, thoughtless! How could I forget
its causes were around me yet?
For wheresoe'er I looked, the while,
was nature's everlasting smile.
Still came and lingered on my sight
of flowers and streams the bloom and light,
and glory of the stars and sun;--
and these and poetry are one.
They, ere the world had held me long,
recalled me to the love of song. |
