The Singers

The bird sings in the wild-wood,
    And the brook sings in the glen,
The musical voice of childhood
    Sings in the home of men.

The mother sings to her baby;
    The farm-boy whistles loud,
And his soaring thoughts, it may be,
    Sing with the lark in the cloud.

The wind sings over the larches,
    The maiden sings below,
And the lover, in slow-paced marches,
Goes singing in a low song slow.

These have their place and season,
    And their music comes and goes;
They are sweet or sad by reason
    Of our shifting joys and woes.

But only the poet singeth
    An everlasting lay,
Whose changeless melody ringeth
    To-morrow as to-day.

The song of the poet marries
    The music of all in one,
And in full concert carries *
             The meaning of every tone.

He sings for the woods and the waters,
    The winds and the birds of the air,
For the hearts of sons and daughters,
    The loves of the brave and fair.

Alas! if he fail in duty
    All nature seems less sweet,
The beautiful wears less beauty,
    And the perfect is incomplete.