Poem by Isa Knox

The Poet's Aim

The past poured his lays
    Before a listening throng,
And loud and fervent was the praise
    That hailed each burst of song.
Not then, but after thought,
    When his quick heart was wise,
He knew that the glory he had sought,
    With the breath that wafts it dies;
And he longed to win for his sanest lay
Something that would endure for aye.

The poet poured a lay;
    There was but one to hear.
What doth the gentle maiden say,
    Than all his fame more dear?
"Not for the thoughts that glow,
    Or words that gush like wine,
I love it," and she whispered low—
    "I love it, for it is thine."
"This were enough for me," he said,
"But my lay must live when I am dead."

The poet poured his lays,
    He sang as sing the birds;
Or as the sun sends forth his rays,
    He sent forth living words.
Once, in his steadfast toil,
    He saw a man rejoice,
And stoutlier labour on the while,
    Lifting his rough deep voice.
"Can you tell," said the poet, whose song is this?
The toiler chanted a lay of his.

"No: but, where'er he be,
    I love him for that song:
When heart and hand work wearily,
    It seems to make me strong.
Along my life's dull march,
    Its words like music swell:
I find it when my soul doth parch
    As the thirsty find a well.
I whisper its words in a brother's ear,
Whene'er he hath need of hope and cheer."

'Twas the true poet's aim
    Not to be known, but felt;
He knew 'twas better than all fame
    Men's hearts to move and melt.
To give a deathless soul
    New thought, new hope, new strength,
He had set before him as his goal,
    And the prize was reached at length.
He had won what should endure for aye,
Though perished from earth his life and lay.

1. Live and Let Live
2. Wind and Stars
3. A Greenness o’er My Vision Passed
4. Shadow
5. The Brides of Quair

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