Poetry

Morn on her rosy couch awoke,

Enchantment led the hour,

And mirth and music drank the dews

That freshen’d Beauty’s flower,

Then from her bower of deep delight,

I heard a young girl sing,

‘Oh, speak no ill of poetry,

For ’tis a holy thing.’

The Sun in noon-day heat rose high,

And on the heaving breast,

I saw a weary pilgrim toil

Unpitied and unblest,

Yet still in trembling measures flow’d

Forth from a broken string,

‘Oh, speak no ill of poetry,

For ’tis a holy thing.’

’Twas night, and Death the curtains drew,

’Mid agony severe,

While there a willing spirit went

Home to a glorious sphere,

Yet still it sigh’d, even when was spread

The waiting Angel’s wing,

‘Oh, speak no ill of poetry,

For ’tis a holy thing.’

Source: She Wields a Pen: American Women Poets of the Nineteenth Century (University of Iowa Press, 1997)