A SONNET FOR POETS.

Sometimes birds sing not though the morn is fair; Sometimes flowers folded lie beneath the sun; Sometimes no dew falls though the day is done; Sometimes where fruit should grow the branch is bare; Sometimes the truest poet must forbear To make his music, though the hour is one With perfect beauty ended and begun: Sometimes his power has left him to despair, Sometimes he standeth spelled and dumb, though all Is great around him, though he plainly sees The beauty, and the grand sound plainly hears. But if, ere glories vanish, it befall That his sweet tongue doth loosen; as it frees He thrills with rapture, hymning through his tears. William Francis Barnard.