Robert Crawford (1868 - 13 January 1930 / Australia)

Music, with the tears in it,
Through my soul is ringing,
Moods like bodies flame and flit
Through the spirit's singing;
Dream-birds half-articulate,
Which no charms can capture,
Come by twos and nest and mate
In a moment's rapture.
Now I seem to be upborne
On a starry pinion
Where the poet's hope forlorn
Has divine dominion —
Where he sees the clouds of earth
Gather light and cluster,
As babes on the dawn of Birth
Watch the visions muster!
All that thought and feeling share
In a soul's possession
To my singing seems to bear
A divine confession;
As within my dreaming brain
Lips of inspiration
Breathe the beauty gone again
On a new creation.