I have put by the schoolmen, <br />The seeming great and sage; <br />Nor will I taste the vintage <br />Brewed in the vats of Age; <br />But I will sip the dewdrops <br />On the lily's leaves unfurl'd, <br />And list the wild birds warble <br />The wisdom of the world. <br />But this shall be my learning: <br />Whate'er the pundit knows <br />Has the dust of doubt upon it <br />As to the grave it goes. <br />The truths that I would gather <br />Are different in kind, <br />Touched with a natural magic <br />No artifice can find. <br />Ere time, a weird, wild creature, <br />Had been ensnared and thrall'd <br />By any human meaning, <br />The gods in thunder call'd <br />Among the heights and hollows, <br />Like syllables that sent <br />Into the moods of Nature <br />Aerial wonderment. <br />And this shall be my learning, <br />And to this tune I'll grow <br />As to a magic rarer <br />Than all the schoolmen know; <br />Within the ways that hint of <br />The heathen joys that roam — <br />The simple things that come to <br />The heart, and find a home.<br /><br />Robert Crawford<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/natural-magic-3/
