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THE! POET 201
The stars spin fine their filigree,
Can hidden spirits in it be?
There haunts me something awing...
You finer birch, you snow unstained,
You purer air,—a soul you’ve gained?
Who is it here now drawing
His features dear in nature’s face,
In all this fascinating grace,
In falling stars that cheat me,—
In these white gleams that finely glance,
In all this silent rhythmic dance? ...
Hans Brecke!—comes to meet me.
THE POET
Tue poet does the prophet’s deeds;
In times of need with new life pregnant,
When strife and suffering are regnant,
His faith with light ideal leads.
The past its heroes round him posts,
He rallies now the present’s hosts,
The future opes
Before his eyes,
Its pictured hopes
He prophesies.
Ever his people’s forces vernal
The poet frees,—by right eternal.
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