Poem by Alexander Anderson

A Voice from Dreamland

A voice from dreamland said to me—
"Poet, what music is in thee?
Ring it out until it find
A nook for rest within thy kind."

I stood and heard the voice speak out,
Then answered, bowing low in doubt,
"Of what use is a simple song,
That vainly wrestles to be strong?

"For, ever as I shape my lips,
A darkness comes and, rising, dips
In misty folds the vain, weak words
That creep by fits along the chords."

The voice then questioned, "Art thou sure
If all thy purposes be pure?
If whim or low conceit is in
Thy singing: singing thus is sin."

I answered to that ready voice,
"I sing not as if making choice;
The impulse bearing me along
Has driven me against my song,

"And all my soul, like flax at fire,
Leaps up to grasp but one desire—
That I may touch the lower strings,
And fit them unto noble things."

I waited for the voice again,
But silence fell between us twain;
At last, like a low breath in spring,
The voice made answer, saying, "Sing!"

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