Attempt > Volume 1 and Select writings

52
THE ATTEMPT.
tlje gumcs.
0 little flowers, that with the sun
Open your radiant golden eyes,
And when the twilight shadows fall,
Your petals wet with silver dew,
Which ever through the livelong day,
Ye raise unwearied to the skies.
Ye close your patient eyes in rest,
Then with the morn ye wake anew.
Unwearied through the longest day,
Whether the sky be dark or fair,
Sweet flowers, may we not learn of you
A holy faith, a trusting grace—
In sunny or in shady place,
Ye can be happy anywhere.
Contentment where our lot is cast,
Even though it be the loneliest place.
R. C. W.
(Dtt gaftnr.
There are two great pleasures given to mankind. The first is that of writing
Poetry—the second is that of appreciating Poetry. But these two powers are far from
being equally distributed throughout human beings. Let us look first at the poet
himself. His very birth differs from that of common mortals, for
His childhood is spent in a world of his own,—he cannot be tied down by common
rules,—Imagination is his playmate, and Nature his guide. This is more particularly
the case with poets of the objective class. To them nature is full of poetry. The
rustling of the wind in the trees, the singing of the birds, the murmuring of the brooks,
all speak to them of poetry. We may all, however prosaic we may be, enjoy those
sounds, but we cannot express our feelings in poetry, and so we fall into the second
class of mortals, namely, the appreciators of poetry. And from our station in the
second class, we look with eyes of something like envy on those in the first class, who
can give “ a local habitation and a name ” to what we can only dimly feel. But then,
again, we look with eyes of pity on those of the third class, namely, those who can
neither write nor feel poetry—to whom life is all prose, and who care not to have it
cheered by the bright light of poetry.
“ The poet in a golden clime was born,
With golden stars above—
Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,
The love of love.”