Alexander Smith (Александр Смит)

* * *

Joy like a stream flows through the Christmas-streets,
But I am sitting in my silent room,
Sitting all silent in congenial gloom.
To-night, while half the world the other greets
With smiles and grasping hands and drinks and meats,
I sit and muse on my poetic doom;
Like the dim scent within a budded rose,
A joy is folded in my heart; and when
I think on Poets nurtured 'mong the throes,
And by the lowly hearths of common men,--
Think of their works, some song, some swelling ode
With gorgeous music growing to a close,
Deep-muffled as the dead-march of a god,--
My heart is burning to be one of those.

1. There Have Been Vast Displays of Critic Wit
2. Beauty Still Walketh on the Earth and Air
3. I Cannot Deem Why Men Toil So for Fame
4. Blaavin
5. Inversnaid

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