POETRY.

TO A POET.

Thou who singest through the earth,—

All the earth's wild creatures fly thee ; Everywhere thou rearrest mirth ;

Dumbly they defy thee,—

There is something they deny thee.

Pines thy fallen nature ever For the unfallen Nature sweet ; But she shuns thy long endeavour, Though her flowers and wheat Throng and press thy pausing feet.

Though thou tame a bird to love thee, Press thy face to grass and flowers, All these things reserve above thee Secrets in the bowers, Secrets in the sun and showers.

Sing thy sorrow, sing thy gladness.

In thy songs must wind and tree Bear the fictions of thy sadness,

Thy humanity,—

For their truth is not for thee.

Wait, and many a secret nest, Many a hoarded winter-store, Will be hidden on thy breast ; Things thou longest for Will not fear or shun thee more.

Thou shalt intimately lie, In the roots of flowers that thrust Upwards from thee to the sky, With no more distrust, When they blossom from thy dust.

Silent labours of the rain Shall be near thee, reconciled ; Little lives of leaves and grain, All things shy and wild, Tell thee secrets, quiet child.

Earth, set free from thy fair fancies, And the Art thou shalt resign, Will bring forth her rue and pansies Unto more divine Thoughts than any thoughts of thine.

Naught will fear thee, humbled creature.

There will lie thy mortal burden, Pressed unto the heart of Nature, Songless in a garden, With a long embrace of pardon.

Then the truth all creatures tell, And God's will Whom thou entreatest Shall absorb thee ; there shall dwell Silence, the completest Of thy poems, last, and sweetest.

A. C. G. THOMPSON.