The poet is no liar. No!
Though truth may not be told
By him, just so, and so,--
By weight, and measure, or the cold
And soulless numbers--
By facts, so called, that cloy and cumber
The Psyche in its flight
Into that heavenly light
Of things, which children know,--
And poets see and feel
In beauty, which is truth,
Whose life-inspiring glow
Sometimes doth steal
Upon him, as does love upon the youth,
And moves his heart to song--
The music of his being,
Whose notes are pure and strong,
While he is seeing
God’s Seraphims, and all
The earth replete with glory,--
And hears the call
From ages hoary
To his own day, and times to be--
The voice of God;
Truth-teller he,
Despite the rod
Of proud custodians
Of labelled “scientific facts” sans
Poetry,--
Before whom he refuses to bend knee;--
Truth-teller he, because to him was given
The vision to behold--the glory-trail of heaven,
In little things and great,
In life, and death, and destiny, and fate.