There is something of poetry born in us each,
Though in many, perhaps, it is born without speech, -
An existence but dumb and uncertain, that strives
For expression in vain through the whole of their lives;
That is glad when the spring wears its beautiful smile,
And is sad when all nature to tears would beguile;
That can feel in the summer a glory divine
Thrilling on though the days in their silvery shine;
That can drink in delight in its radiance rare
When the mellow-hued autumn breathes peace like a
prayer;
That can weep with the world in its woe of to-day,
And to-morrow take part in its merriest play;
That can stand on the mountain-tops often, and see
Where the far-away gardens of paradise be;
That can sound with its plummet of feeling the deeps
Where despair in the darkness of destiny sleeps;
That can feel, and can be, yet can never express
All the feeling and being its life may possess,
But that yearns with a yearning no poet e'er knew
In its silence of years for the speech of the few.
