Chopin

III

A voice was needed, sweet and true and fine

As the sad spirit of the evening breeze,

Throbbing with human passion, yet devine

As the wild bird's untutored melodies.

A voice for him 'neath twilight heavens dim,

Who mourneth for his dead, while round him fall

The wan and noiseless leaves. A voice for him

Who sees the first green sprout, who hears the call

Of the first robin on the first spring day.

A voice for all whom Fate hath set apart,

Who, still misprized, must perish by the way,

Longing with love, for that they lack the art

Of their own soul's expression. For all these

Sing the unspoken hope, the vague, sad reveries.

IV

Then Nature shaped a poet's heart--a lyre

From out whose chords the lightest breeze that blows

Drew trembling music, wakening sweet desire.

How shall she cherish him? Behold! she throws

This precious, fragile treasure in the whirl

Of seething passions; he is scourged and stung,

Must dive in storm-vext seas, if but one pearl

Of art or beauty therefrom may be wrung.

No pure-browed pensive nymph his Muse shall be,

An amazon of thought with sovereign eyes,

Whose kiss was poison, man-brained, worldy-wise,

Inspired that elfin, delicate harmony.

Rich gain for us! But with him is it well?

The poet who must sound earth, heaven, and hell!