The poem
I FAIN would leave the tender songs I sang to you of old, Thinking the oft-sung beauty wrongs The magic never told.
And touch no more the thoughts, the moods, That win the easy praise; But venture in the untrodden woods To carve the future ways.
Though far or strange or cold appear The shadowy things I tell, Within the heart the hidden seer Knows and remembers well.
I think that in the coming time The hearts and hopes of men The mountain tops of life shall climb, The gods return again.
I strive to blow the magic horn; It feebly murmureth; Arise on some enchanted morn, Poet, with God’s own breath!
And sound the horn I cannot blow, And by the secret name Each exile of the heart will know Kindle the magic flame.