AT the Poet's life-core lying
Is a sheltered and sacred nest,
Where, as yet, unfledged for flying,
His callow fancies rest:
Fancies, and thoughts, and feelings,
Which the mother Psyche breeds,
And passions whose dim revealings
But torture their hungry needs.
Yet,--there cometh a summer splendor
When the golden brood wax strong,
And, will voices grand or tender,
They rise to the heaven of song.
