You who have heard a world-loved singer winging
On white, clear tones up to the arch of Joy,
Oh, wonder now what may have been her singing
When, all alone, and free from all annoy,
On some still morning's air
She opened up her heart,
Singing beyond compare,
Forgetting it was art!

Not to be courted in the crowded street,
But shyly, to the artist comes his Art.
No tongue must tell to common ears how sweet
Her smile can be when they withdraw apart.
The minstrel's highest songs
Are sung to skies and hills;
He unto Song belongs,
But Song flies as she wills.

Ah, when a strain is struggling in the heart,
Then bursts and wings in melody divine, —
Who'll catch the truant, once it has a start?
Let loose the falcon Thought! It may be thine!
Bribe Echo for its trail,
And harness Fancy's feet!
Seek out this latest Grail
With love than life more fleet!

I asked the Wind which way the vision vanished,
I prayed the Stars to gild its flying track,
I braved the Sun, and cried: Why is it vanished?
Their sad, blank faces drave my question back.
Who seeks the lost Ideal —
A bird bred not for cages?
It tempts us toward the Real,
In footsteps of the sages.

Lost Friend! A melody lost in a Friend!
Thou art but as a lure to guide my groping;
Out of this labyrinth to give me trend
Unto a realm of seeing, knowing, hoping.
So swiftly thou didst flee
To leave to me for dower
Hints in each wayside tree,
Beckonings in each flower.

And benison of little baby faces
Drops from the skies on spirits who have known,
Bound up in miniature, all the skyey graces,
Printed by Love, in hidden vigils lone.
Ah, when the lisping tongue
The last dear word had spoken!
O little heart unstrung!
O baby harp that's broken!

Lost Song, lost Dream, lost Friend, lost Baby fingers, —
Shrined in a realm elusive, strangely near, —
Why chide one who, a prisoner, still lingers,
Shut by the " dead-line " from your freedom dear?
Yet, dreaming how you roam,
Our steps may grow the fleeter
To seek the mystic home
Whose welcome you make sweeter.