Alexander Smith (1830–1867)

JOY like a stream flows through the Christmas streets,

But I am sitting in my silent room,

Sitting all silent in congenial gloom;—

To-night, while half the world the other greets

With smiles and grasping hands, and drinks and meats,

I sit, and muse on my poetic doom.

Like the dim scent within a budded rose,

A joy is folded in my heart; and when

I think on Poets nurtured ’mong the throes,

And by the lowly hearths of common men,—

Think of their works, some song, some swelling ode

With gorgeous music growing to a close,

Deep-muffled as the dead-march of a god,—

My heart is burning to be one of those.