THE POET

The truest poet is not one Whose golden fancies fuse and run To moulded phrases, crusted o’er With flashing gems of metaphor; Whose art, responsive to his will, Makes voluble the thoughts that fill The cultured windings of his brain, Yet takes no soundings of the pain, The joy, the yearnings of the heart Untrammeled by the bonds of art, O! poet truer far than he Is such a one as you may be, When in the quiet night you keep Mute vigil on the marge of sleep. If then, with beating heart, you mark God’s nearer presence in the dark, And musing on the wondrous ways Of Him who numbers all your days, Pay tribute to Him with your tears For joys, for sorrows, hopes and fears Which he has blessed and given to you, You are the poet, great and true. For there are songs within the heart Whose perfect melody no art Can teach the tongue of man to phrase. These are the songs His poets raise, When in the night they keep Mute vigil on the marge of sleep.