The Poet
No narrow field the poet has,
The world before him spreading,
But he must write his honest thought,
No critic's cold eye dreading.
His range is over everything,
The air, the sea, the earth, the mind,
And with his verses murmurs sing,
And joyous notes float down the wind.
The world before him spreading,
But he must write his honest thought,
No critic's cold eye dreading.
His range is over everything,
The air, the sea, the earth, the mind,
And with his verses murmurs sing,
And joyous notes float down the wind.
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