Not while the fever of the blood is strong, <br />The heart throbs loud, the eyes are veiled, no less <br />With passion than with tears, the Muse shall bless <br />The poet-sould to help and soothe with song. <br />Not then she bids his trembling lips express <br />The aching gladness, the voluptuous pain. <br />Life is his poem then; flesh, sense, and brain <br />One full-stringed lyre attuned to happiness. <br />But when the dream is done, the pulses fail, <br />The day's illusion, with the day's sun set, <br />He, lonely in the twilight, sees the pale <br />Divine Consoler, featured like Regret, <br />Enter and clasp his hand and kiss his brow. <br />Then his lips ope to sing--as mine do now.<br /><br />Emma Lazarus<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/life-and-art/
