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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem