432 South Eighth Poem by Henry Meade Bland

This was the place wherein the singer tuned
His harp and listening, caught the immortal strain.
Here under the sylvan shade the wild refrain,
A sorrow song of killing toil, he runed;
And with a loving pity he communed
Until his soul was touched with lyric pain
That brought an endless yearning to his brain
To heal for time the aching human wound.

Yes, guard with love the sacred precinct well
That homed the dreamer when he played the part,
And through the years, with fervent fancy, tell
The magic tale wrought by the mighty art,—
His art which, as a long Pacific swell,
Conquers the deep-set granite of the heart.