Poet, my master, come, tell me true,
And how are your verses made?
Ah! that is the easiest thing to do:—
You take a cloud of a silvern hue,
A tender smile or a sprig of rue,
With plenty of light and shade,
And weave them round in syllables rare,
With a grace and skill divine;
With the earnest words of a pleading prayer,
With a cadence caught from a dulcet air,
A tale of love and a lock of hair,
Or a bit of a trailing vine.
Or, delving deep in a mine unwrought,
You find in the teeming earth
The golden vein of a noble thought;
The soul of a statesman still unbought,
Or a patriot's cry with anguish fraught
For the land that gave him birth.
A brilliant youth who has lost his way
On the winding road of life;
A sculptor's dream of the plastic clay;
A painter's soul in a sunset ray;
The sweetest thing a woman can say,
Or a struggling nation's strife.
A boy's ambition; a maiden's star,
Unrisen, but yet to be;
A glimmering light that shines afar
For a sinking ship on a moaning bar;
An empty sleeve; a veteran's scar;
Or a land where men are free.
And if the poet's hand be strong
To weave the web of a deathless song,
And if a master guide the pen
To words that reach the hearts of men,
And if the ear and the touch be true,
It's the easiest thing in the world to do!