Florence Earle Coates


A dreamer midst the stars doth dwell,
Known to the gods as Israphel.
⁠⁠     His heart-strings are a lute;
And when, the magic notes outpouring,
He parts his lips, the gods, adoring,
⁠⁠     Listen in transport mute,
Subdued and softened by the spell
Of the dreamer, Israphel!

And mortals, when they hear him, start,
And, full of wonder, call him—Art,
⁠⁠     And, fain his gift to gain,
Essay to imitate the fashion
Of his rare song, and breathe its passion,—
     ⁠⁠But, ah, they strive in vain;
For his song is more than art,
Whose lute-strings are his heart!

And others, unto whom he wings
The sweetest melodies he sings,
     ⁠⁠In worship, name him—Love;
Yet longing the pure strain to capture,
When at the very height of rapture,
     ⁠⁠A sadness oft approve,
And fancy, strangely, that he wrings
The music from their own heart-strings!

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