How Paderewski plays! And was it he Or some disbodied spirit which had rushed From silence into singing; and had crushed Into one startled hour a life's felicity, And highest bliss of knowledge--that all life, grief, wrong, Turn at the last to beauty and to song!
What is a sonnet? 'Tis the pearly shell That murmurs of the far-off murmuring sea; A precious jewel carved most curiously; It is a little picture painted well. What is a sonnet? 'Tis the tear that fell From a great poet's hidden ecstasy; A two-edged sword, a star, a song--ah me! Sometimes a heavy-tolling funeral bell. This was the flame that shook with Dante's breath; The solemn organ whereon Milton played, And the clear glass where Shakespeare's shadow falls: A sea this is--beware who ventureth! For like a fiord the narrow floor is laid Mid-ocean deep to the sheer mountain walls.
Land that we love! Thou Future of the World! Thou refuge of the noble heart oppressed! Oh, never be thy shining image hurled From its high place in the adoring breast Of him who worships thee with jealous love! Keep thou thy starry forehead as the dove All white, and to the eternal Dawn inclined! Thou art not for thyself, but for mankind, And to despair of thee were to despair Of man, of man's high destiny, of God! Of thee should man despair, the journey trod Upward, through unknown eons, stair on stair, By this our race, with bleeding feet and slow, Were but the pathway to a darker woe Than yet was visioned by the heavy heart Of prophet. To despair of thee! Ah no! For thou thyself art Hope; Hope of the World thou art!
This bronze doth keep the very form and mold Of our great martyr's face. Yes, this is he: That brow all wisdom, all benignity; That human, humorous mouth; those cheeks that hold Like some harsh landscape all the summer's gold; That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea For storms to beat on; the lone agony Those silent, patient lips too well foretold. Yes, this is he who ruled a world of men As might some prophet of the elder day-- Brooding above the tempest and the fray With deep-eyed thought and more than mortal ken. A power was his beyond the touch of art Or armèd strength--his pure and mighty heart.
Call me not dead when I, indeed, have gone Into the company of the ever-living High and most glorious poets! Let thanksgiving Rather be made. Say:--"He at last hath won Rest and release, converse supreme and wise, Music and song and light of immortal faces; To-day, perhaps, wandering in starry places, He hath met Keats, and known him by his eyes. To-morrow (who can say?) Shakespeare may pass, And our lost friend just catch one syllable Of that three-centuried wit that kept so well; Or Milton; or Dante, looking on the grass Thinking of Beatrice, and listening still To chanted hymns that sound from the heavenly hill."