Welsh Journals

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Why dissemble Little lark? Why flutter and tremble To keep it dark, Little lark? I search not for thy humble moss-walled home For me 'tis sacred as the poet's tomb. Yet I shall ask thee for a song, I cannot sing myself, But thou, sweet elf, Canst open up the clouds and bring a throng Of light wing'd hopes to charm and corrfort me. Of heaven delights to me— The rhythm of my fate is timed with thee. I sweat to expand my soul The grime is on my hand I have but little music to unroll, Yet I can understand How near heaven I am when I hear thee. Shelley, and Keats, shall sing my thoughts for me— Young bloods of the heavenly muse, Who scaled Parnassus with one magic stride, Who lived with the gods, and died, And gave the world in song immortal news Why dissemble Little lark ? Why flutter and tremble To keep it dark Little lark ? A war is breaking hearts just there And men are from their dreams descending Fulfil thy mission, have no care Climb up the filmy spiral stair To thy blue palace in the air And sing while there ascending- A whirlpool of sweet warbling sound, Rolling, and running, through, and round An ode that is never-ending Soar, and soar, yet higher, higher, God's own sunbeams are thy lyre: The base will burn in thy true fire, And man shall better be- And learn from thee since he is now a flier To M bomb the earth with nought but melody My fate Is timed with thee Tell me while I wait, Karma, Manas, or what state Of Wagner's spirit incarnate- Let thy maddening melody Now to me relate A bird thou canst not be A flimsy eggshell ne'er could hold Such breaking blowers of melody- Could ne'er confine within its fold Music that hath on ether roll'd Through all Eternity! Hath sound of guns so deafened heaven And broken the heart of God, That He can't hear the dream-song given By thee from thy abode So near heaven ? The choral harmony of heaven Depends on thou being heard, Sweet bird. Wonderful star-guest. Sing on thy sad lament for those gone west," For every sigh, and sorrow of the world Breaks out in thy dear breast. Why dissemble Little lark ? Why flutter and tremble To keep it dark Little lark ? Thou hast built one nest Within my heart There rest And flutter not, or it will flutter too With thee Heaven-source of happiness to me, A thrill-joy through and through, Aeolian harp and pipes of Pan In one- Sing on and let my fears all depart, And hear my pulse beat time to thy magic art. Huw Menai.