Jane Wilde

27 December 1821 – 3 February 1896

The Fate Of The Lyrist

The soul is ever clinging unto form;
Action, not abstract thought, alone can warm
The great heart of Humanity—in life’s fierce storm
Pass they the Lyrist by.
The Dramatist may wear triumphant bays;
And see the wondering people’s tranc’d amaze,
The while unrolls great Homer to their gaze,
His gorgeous, many‐coloured tapestry.
But lofty Pindar’s heaven‐directed flight,
Petrarca’s song, mystic and sad as night,
Fall dull upon the common ear—their might
Is to the world a mystery.
Such spirits dwell but with the spiritual
Their godlike souls disdaining to enthrall;
Within the limits of the actual,
Men pass, unheeding the divinity.
Their name, indeed, is echoed by the crowd;
But from amidst the masses earthward bowed,
Few lift the head, with kindred soul endowed,
To list their Orphic melody.
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