By Ruby Archer

How the composer thrills, when softly glides
Across the waiting soul’s attuned lyre
An unthought melody, and there abides;
Or when some lovely form, a dream half hides,
Reveals itself, how glows the sculptor’s heart of fire!
When to the poet, seeking beauty, truth,
And all that Pleasure wins from dimpled Mirth,—
A new perception comes, of age or youth,
Of Nature’s coy caprice or random ruth—
How all his being flowers with ecstasy at Fancy’s birth!

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