Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/327
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WHAT IS TRUE POETRY?
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I know she is in heaven now,
That holy place of rest;
For she was always good to me—
The good alone are blest.
That holy place of rest;
For she was always good to me—
The good alone are blest.
I remember, too, when I was ill,
She kissed my burning brow,
The tear that fell upon my cheek—
I think I feel it now.
She kissed my burning brow,
The tear that fell upon my cheek—
I think I feel it now.
And I have got some little books,
She taught me how to spell;
The chiding or the kiss she gave
I still remember well.
She taught me how to spell;
The chiding or the kiss she gave
I still remember well.
And then she used to kneel with me,
And teach me how to pray,
And raise my little hands to heaven,
And tell me what to say.
And teach me how to pray,
And raise my little hands to heaven,
And tell me what to say.
O mother, mother! in my heart
Thy image still shall be,
And I will hope in heaven at last,
That I may meet with thee.
Thy image still shall be,
And I will hope in heaven at last,
That I may meet with thee.
What Is True Poetry?
Copyright. By permission of the Editor of the Imperial Speaker.
Poetry—poetry!
What is true poetry?
Gems of the intellect, brighter than gold;
Such as the muses bring,
New and astonishing—
Glories the gifted alone can unfold.
What is true poetry?
Gems of the intellect, brighter than gold;
Such as the muses bring,
New and astonishing—
Glories the gifted alone can unfold.
Beautiful—beautiful!
All that is beautiful,
Seen in the stars as in glory they roll—
Images exquisite,
Pictured as requisite—
Giving a joy unexpressed to the soul.
All that is beautiful,
Seen in the stars as in glory they roll—
Images exquisite,
Pictured as requisite—
Giving a joy unexpressed to the soul.