THE POOR POET
Reading edition
The voices from the bough Do carol clear enow: The eglantine in many a bush Doth to the light her blossoms push; While I sing diligently And strive for my poor bread. The bough to the birds all Is a high heavenly hall, And to the enamelled eglantine The ceiling of her quiet shrine; But I say sorrowfully, Ah me, the homeless head! The sparrow hath his mate And is not desolate: The flower, complete unto herself, Never pursues a wraithy elf: O black-eyed Melancholy, I never shall be wed! 1917.