And, like a stream whose surface flows
The wrong way when a strong wind blows,
It underneath maintained its course.

Oft didst thou think thy mind would flower
Too late for good, as some bruised tree
That blooms in Autumn, and we see
Fruit not worth picking, hard and sour.

Some poets _feign_ their wounds and scars.
If they had known real suffering hours,
They'd show, in place of Fancy's flowers,
More of Imagination's stars.

So, if thy fruits of Poesy
Are rich, it is at this dear cost--
That they were nipt by Sorrow's frost,
In nights of homeless misery.




THE BIRD-MAN


Man is a bird:
He rises on fine wings
Into the Heaven's clear light;
He flies away and sings--
There's music in his flight.