Classic Poem

So small a measure are these gifts of mine
To lay upon the altar of the King.
My genius, when all garnered, shall but bring
A scanty measure of the purer wine.
A wisp of music and a lilting line,
A meagre word of beauty from the store
Of language and her multitude; what more
Have I to offer for Thy love divine?
How shall the moon repay her borrowed ray?
Of one blue flower of England count her gain
From that old, upward look at Dorian skies!
Or those white, curving throats on Biscay Bay
Restore their debt, by some august refrain,
To that strange beauty in Selene's eyes!