by George William Russell
I FAIN would leave the tender songs
I sang to you of old,
Thinking the oft-sung beauty wrongs
The magic never told.
And touch no more the thoughts, the moods,
That win the easy praise;
But venture in the untrodden woods
To carve the future ways.
Though far or strange or cold appear
The shadowy things I tell,
Within the heart the hidden seer
Knows and remembers well.
I think that in the coming time
The hearts and hopes of men
The mountain tops of life shall climb,
The gods return again.
I strive to blow the magic horn;
It feebly murmureth;
Arise on some enchanted morn,
Poet, with God’s own breath!
And sound the horn I cannot blow,
And by the secret name
Each exile of the heart will know
Kindle the magic flame.
Last updated May 02, 2015