From "To a Writer of the Day"

Technique could but this be brought Into your ken,—that the technique is thought! Escape from “Style,” the notion men can use Words without thoughts,—so wrench and so abuse The innocent language to their ends that they Will seem to be respectful, honest, gay, Grave, or what else—and all the glorious while The authors’ selves sit with the wise and smile: “’T is but a trick, ’t is words, it is a style!” Your technique, then, is thought, just as I say. And if you ’ll write a poem, there ’s no way But first to think it clearly; pin your mind Upon your thought; fasten it there, and bind The thought into your heart: when your veins burn and flow With love or hate, the thoughts to music go, Melt into music, and pour fully out In a rich flood;—but to take thought about The “music” of your words, ’t is matter quite Beyond your conscious power! For rhymes, they ’re right Or wrong according as they hear, not look When printed by a printer in a book! And their “correctness” may be measured best, And indeed only, by a certain test: That, namely, for rebellions,—which are so Until they have succeeded, when they go By quite another name. Forget not, too, That every English poet known to you, That is to say all of them, rhymed just as The spirit took them and their pleasure was, And, masters that they were, rhymed “falsely,” so As now no poetaster dares to do! PURPOSE So then, at last, let me awake this sleep And languor of yourself: it is too deep, And ’t is too long! Oh, I would have you look With judgment on your life, and not to brook The less in art, as not in truth;—forgive Much in you now I can, never that you less live! I may put by whatever choice of themes, But not this air of being by rich dreams Roofed over, and floored under, and walled in. As Eastern princes in a palanquin Luxuriously ride, by eunuchs round Held and supported, lifted from the ground, And softly borne,—so you, on the mild shoulders, Effeminate, of dreams!—Your spirit moulders; The freshness of your soul withers away As roses do that cannot find the day. Oh, free yourself!—take up your life and share The splendor of this day, the world’s great air, And this new land’s delight,—this land that we Adore, this people, this great liberty Of nations in new birth,—a happy shower Of golden States,—a many-blossomed flower!— Now grown a Commonwealth, whose strength and state And health are dangerous to all that hate Freedom, and fatal to all those who’d be Sunk in the dark of Time’s abysmal sea, Safe anchored in the past—safe dead!—that none Might longer make them fear a change beneath the sun, To fright them with new good.—But oh, to those Whose blood within them leaps and laughs and flows; To all who proudly hope; to all who fain With their right hands and with their heart and brain Would throne the right, and make the good to reign; To all who’d lift man up, and who, heart-free, Haste toward the light,—this Land and State should be Dear as their life!—And to her sons should she Be born again in love, since with her noblest blood And her right hand of youth she smote the brood Of her own loins, nested in servitude, Shadowing the world’s detraction with fair peace. Dear mother of her sons, whose wealth is these; Her more than gold, their valor, mercy, truth; Her mighty age, immortal in their youth:— Dear light of hope, oh, needs she not to be Forever saved into new liberty? The fallen blood of martyrs is in vain If ours be not as free to fall again! But her salvation is a rigorous task, Eternally accomplishing.—I ask You, therefore, as one owing more than most To her, who is your happiness and boast, That you cast from you all that will not wake Men’s hearts from sensual sleep:—for her great sake Put by the velvet touch, the easy grace, The fingers dreaming on the lyre, the face Forgetful, listening to light melodies; Cease thou thy toying with the hours, and cease This riot of thy youth, this wantoning With all the sap and spirit of thy Spring. Not twice that vendure’s given thee; the Tree Of Life not twice shall blossom; and to be Young, ’t is to be in heaven, ’t is to be Full of ambition, filled with hot desire, Pregnant with life, and steeped in such a fire AS sets a world in hope!—Oh, could I say That which I would, you could not say me nay. But let your country plead with you; give heed To her dumb call; sow the eternal seed Of Truth, and Righteousness, and Love;—though you Shall be, as poets should, known to but few, Yet your reward is great: it is to be Sown in the hearts of men, to make men free; And in your thoughts to be your land’s firm stay, And her salvation in a falling day, More than dread cannon, than bright thousands more: For thoughts, like angels, wage eternal war.