Classic Poem

Slight is the thing it needs to wake
The embers that have slumbered long
Within the poet's heart, and make
Them burn again with song.

A rose, a star, a voice, a glance,
Echo or glimpse, — it is the same:
Some mystery of time or chance
That finds the hidden flame.

Embers of song and song's desire,
Hushed in the singer's heart they lie,
And softly kindle into fire
If but a dream go by.

And none may say, since none can know,
Whence comes the vivifying spark
That sends a transitory glow
Of song across the dark.

It is a secret summons, such
As comes unto the spray when spring
Wakens the blossoms with a touch,
That bids the poet, Sing !