From the Omaha Daily Bee, August 9, 1913. By Alan Sullivan.
Fill me with fire and solace,
Gird me with speech divine,
That the word of my mouth be music
And the chord of my song be wine!
For the soul that quivers within me
Would mystical things unfold
Though the world is weary of singing
And the eyes of the world are cold.
I am the deathless Vision,
The voice of memorial years,
The prince of the world’s rejoicing,
The prophet and priest of tears;
Have I not tasted rapture,
Have I not loved and died,
Mounted the peaks of passion,
With you been crucified?
Come! I will lead you softly
Through floods that are smooth and deep
And trailed with the shimmering curtain
Of dream-embroidered sleep,
To the dim mysterious portal
Where the spirit of man may see
The folds of the veil dividing
Himself from eternity.
Would you I bring my music?
I’ll pipe where the toilers go,
And through your sweat and labor
The strain of my song shall flow
Dulcet clear for your comfort,
Winged with a delicate fire,
The shout of a strong heart chanting
In the lift of soul’s desire.
And whether you stay to hearken
And drink of my healing spring,
Or turn from the plaint of my tender
Ere ever ye came I was ancient,
And after ye pass, I come,
The voice that shall lift in rapture
When the moan of the earth is dumb.