A New Theme

 I FAIN would leave the tender songs
 I sang to you of old,
Thinking the oft-sung beauty wrongs
 The magic never told.



And touch no more the thoughts, the moods,
 That win the easy praise;
But venture in the untrodden woods
 To carve the future ways.



Though far or strange or cold appear
 The shadowy things I tell,
Within the heart the hidden seer
 Knows and remembers well.



I think that in the coming time
 The hearts and hopes of men
The mountain tops of life shall climb,
 The gods return again.



I strive to blow the magic horn;
 It feebly murmureth;
Arise on some enchanted morn,
 Poet, with God’s own breath!


And sound the horn I cannot blow,
 And by the secret name
Each exile of the heart will know
 Kindle the magic flame.

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