Poet

To distil a few golden drops of song Through the gloom of this hour; To filter true emotions Through passion's burning fire When the sun bubble-like fades in the west; As our being craves for night's rest That pool of silver in life's forest of distress.

To light some pale candles In the cavern of a lonely isle And draw the wine of day From the must of midnight, Or plant a star-seed in the gray-ploughed eve-- So out of the abyss of the blackness of night Dawn's million-colored fountain might spring.

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