To S.M. Dougalss

To S.M. Dougalss

"There is poetry that is not written: - it is living in the hearts of many to whom rhyme is a mystery." - N.P. Willis.

Thou hast a fragrant, beauteous flower,

Whose kindred blossoms wave

In ev'ry breeze that floats around

The bard of Avon's grave.

No emblematic cypress, rear'd

Beside a silent tomb -

No sorrowful remembrance* fraught

With images of gloom;

But one whose rich, primeval glow,

And sweetly perfumed breath,

Make it appear a spirit flower,

From Fame's undying wreath.

Then strange that thou shouldst say (for none

More highly prize its worth,)

If thine "one spark of poetry,

That flower would draw it forth."

Must intellectual spirits, warm'd

By nature's purest glow,

In artificial links of rhyme

Enchain their breathings? - No!

They need it not - from heart to heart,

Flow feelings pure and free -

In kindling eye and whisper'd word,

Are deep, rich poetry.

Whence comes they pencil's magic power,

The pictur'd wreath to twine?

What gives a voice to relics, cull'd

From garden, wood, and mine? -

A thrilling answer comes from all,

From all combine to tell

How richly, brightly beautiful,

The world in which we dwell!

Its pure, but silent lovliness,

It's eloquent to thee -

To every gifted spirit, blest

With nature's poetry.

How fraught with interest all that e'er

Nature's great Author gave!

From deathless souls and human hearts,

To flowers on Shakespeare's grave!

August, 1837.
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* Adonis Autumnalis.

S.W.

1:40, p. 4

1837.10.07