Bayard Taylor

The source of each accordant strainLies deeper than the Poet’s brain.First from the people’s heart must springThe passions which he learns to sing;They are the wind, the harp is he,To voice their fitful melody,–The language of their varying fate,Their pride, grief, love, ambition, hate,–The talisman which holds inwroughtThe touchstone of the listener’s thought;That penetrates each vain disguise,And brings his secret to his eyes.