The Sonnet: II. To a Poet

Thou who wouldst wake the sonnet’s silver lyre,
Make thine hands clean! Then, as on eagles’ wings,
Above the soiling touch of sordid things,
Bid thy soul soar till, mounting high and higher,
It feels the glow of pure celestial fire,
Bathes in clear light, and hears the song that rings
Through heaven’s high arches when some angel brings
Gifts to the Throne, on wings that never tire!
It hath a subtile music, strangely sweet,
Yet all unmeet for dance or roundelay,
Or idle love that fadeth like a flower.
It is the voice of hearts that strongly beat,
The cry of souls that grandly love and pray,
The trumpet-peal that thrills the battle-hour!