The Muse

“The Muse? Say, why do the poets use
    The words, — ‘O Muse’?
To whom are they spoken? Some spirit or thing
    That inspires to sing?
Some invisible lady who must be wooed
    From her solitude?
I cannot guess what the poets mean,
    Or if any hath seen
An elf or fay who attunes his lay,
And whispers words for his tongue to say.”

My seeker, the fashions of this world change
    Through an endless range;
The dreamer of dreams forever drapes
    The innumerous shapes
Of his thousand visions with life and name,
    But never the same;
All that is sweetest in form and mien
    Of all things he hath seen,
To an image ^is^ wrought of his vivid thought,
Till it seems a Life to be loved and sought!

The poet is Seer, – he sees a form,
    All living and warm,
Where the dull sense feels the cold impact
    Of a lifeless fact;
His oak hath its dryad, a naiad laughs
    From the brook he quaffs;
To ruby and amethyst turns the clay
    Of our lives, in the ray
Of his solvent eye, and the hollow sky
He peoples with beings who cannot die!

When his tongue, like a bob-o-link on the wing,
    Must twitter and sing;
When words will dance to an inner tune,
    Like a brook in June;
When his thoughts in a joyous tumult run
    Like lambs in the sun,
Or leap, and snatch at a gleaming word
    As a warrior’s sword, –
His Mood is the Muse, and he cannot choose
But sing, for it lets no soul refuse!