To Art

What are thine ends? To idle at the door,
The while the wharves call and the ships go by;
Set sail and drift under an April sky,
A curious mariner from shore to shore?
To strip from woodland pool the pipe of yore,
Bursting with many a high, sweet, ancient air,
And shrilling down the country highways fare? —
Son of the gods, and hast thou nothing more!
Storm through the tides, unheeding wreck or night,
Lord of the chart, the track, lord of thy fears,
Fling to the gust the reed of weathers slight;
Blood of our blood, and kin to all our tears,
Cry through the dark, and drive the world to light;
Strike at the heart of time, and rouse the years.