Azalia E. Martin, "Ecstasy" (1907)
A joyous little song;
He reads it o'er and o'er again,
It cheers his soul along.
How often a wounded heart it heals,
To the sad and lone brings mirth,
But the ecstacy that the poet feels
Is greater than wealth of earth.
The sculptor sees in the rugged stone,
Beauties that few may see,
He chisels away with his thoughts alone
To set that beauty free.
Would the sculptor barter his soul's delight
When he views that finished mold,
For a king's vast wealth or a monarch's might
Or aught that the world might hold?
Soft music's strain may charm the ear
Of the listener all intent,
Then he seems to feel his heaven near
And his soul filled with content.
But he who sets that music free
Its ecstacy can tell,
Within his soul there joy can be
Where the Infinite may dwell.
Within some household, lone and still,
Some humble one may move,
Who quietly doeth the Master's will
And every wrong reprove.
The skilled musician, poet, all,
May know of higher life;
But ecstacy rules in this hall,
This home that knows not strife.
Published in The Voice of the Negro, January 1907