The Soul of Art

I LISTEN to the rhymers’ praise of art,
Of the immortal form, the measured phrase,
Of the one mirror and the many ways
The poet’s pale reflection to impart, —
But not a word of the initiate heart,
Of the incarnate Light whose volatile blaze,
Intimate of the soul, eludes the gaze —
Man’s goal of yearning, and his counterpart.

I too am learned in the lore of sound,
In the cold measurement of lyric speech;
But what availed my knowledge till I found
The hidden Thing mere art may never teach.
The selfless Thing, too great to be renowned,
So high — it is within the lowest reach!