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Imperfections.
193
When a poet’s frenzied brain
Catches at some hidden truth,
When is wash’d a crimson stain
With forgiving tears of ruth,
Is not then Prometheus’ bride
Standing glowing by his side?
Is not then more sweet to him
Than the song of Seraphim
Her sweet breath and placid eyes?
For Earth is one with Paradise.
Catches at some hidden truth,
When is wash’d a crimson stain
With forgiving tears of ruth,
Is not then Prometheus’ bride
Standing glowing by his side?
Is not then more sweet to him
Than the song of Seraphim
Her sweet breath and placid eyes?
For Earth is one with Paradise.
Ebenezer Storry Hay.
CXXXI.
Imperfections.
Three verses had my poem. Beauty fain
Had found its fair abiding in the strain,
And sung itself that men might hear and see.
Yet of that beauty one verse utters nought:
In one, discordance broke the tenderest thought.
Well, one is perfect still. So let it be.
Had I been greater I had gained the three.
Had found its fair abiding in the strain,
And sung itself that men might hear and see.
Yet of that beauty one verse utters nought:
In one, discordance broke the tenderest thought.
Well, one is perfect still. So let it be.
Had I been greater I had gained the three.
Earth glories three beguiled me on a day
Their shadowing on my canvas crude to lay.
The pictured mountains paled of glory stand:
The murmuring waves hang leaden lifeless there
Only my sky is excellently fair.
Well, let it be so. Was it for my hand
To paint perfection, sea and sky and land?
Their shadowing on my canvas crude to lay.
The pictured mountains paled of glory stand:
The murmuring waves hang leaden lifeless there
Only my sky is excellently fair.
Well, let it be so. Was it for my hand
To paint perfection, sea and sky and land?