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 sounding 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 quiet night they keep
Mute vigil on the marge of sleep.