A wail in the wind is all I hear

Most joyful let the Poet be; It is through him that all men see.

My highway is unfeatured air, My consorts are the sleepless stars, And men my giant arms upbear — My arms unstained and free from scars.

I sing New England, as she lights her fire In every Prairie's midst; and where the bright Enchanting stars shine pure through Southern night, She still is there, the guardian on the tower, To open for the world a purer hour.

I laugh, for hope hath happy place with me; If my bark sinks, 'tis to another sea.

Song like a rose should be; Each rhyme a petal sweet; For fragrance, melody, That when her lips repeat The words, her heart may know What secret makes them so:—

And also there’s a little star So white a virgin’s it must be:— Perhaps the lamp my love in heaven Hangs out to light the way for me.