Here you will find the Poem A Poet to... of poet Charles Harpur
Long ere I knew thee?years of loveless days, A shape would gather from my dreams, and pour The soul-sweet influence of its gentle gaze Into my heart, to thrill it to the core: Then would I wake, with lonely heart to pine For the nocturnal image?it was thine. Thine?for though long with a fond moody heed I sought to find it in the beauteous creatures I met in the world?s ways, twas but to bleed With disappointment, for all forms, all features, Yet left it void of living counterpart? The shadowy mistress of my yearning heart. Thine?when I saw thee first thou seem?dst to me A being known, yet beautifully new! As when, to crown some sage?s theory, Amid heaven?s sisterhoods, into shining view Comes the conjectured star!?his lucky name To halo thenceforth with its virgin flame. But I forget! Far from thy rural home, Behold I wander mid primeval woods, In which but savage things are wont to roam, Mixing fond questionings with solitude?s Wild voices, where amid her glades and dells Enwrapt in twilight trance her shadowy presence dwells. And now the Hunter, with a swollen speed, Rushes in thunder at my side, but wears A softened mien whene?er its reaches lead My vision westward?where pale fancy rears Thy wood?next by that brook whose murmurs first, As with a flattering heed, my love?s new gladness nurst. And with the river?s murmur, oft a tone Of that far brook seems blending; accents, too, Of the dear voice there heard?that voice alone To me unequalled,?like a silvery dew Honeyed with manna, dropping near me seems, As oft I listen, lost in rich memorial dreams. But vain these musings! Though my spirit?s bride, Thou knewest not of my love! Though all my days Must henceforth be inevitably dyed Or bright, or dark, through thee,?this missive says Thy lot is cast, and thou a wife wilt be Ere I again may look (if e?er again) on thee! The poet?s doom is on me! Poets make Beauty immortal, and yet luckless miss The charms they sing; martyrs at fortune?s stake, As if their soul?s capacity for bliss Might else mix earth with heaven, and so annul That want which makes man seek the world-wide beautiful! Yet, ye wild woods and waters of the earth, How changed (with all things) shall ye grow to me! And even the spirit of your summer mirth Moan pine-like in the woods of memory; Still, shorn of nearer joy, my heart alone Out in the mother-whole may henceforth seek its own.