Classic Poem

They were all more subtle than I,
Who moved in blind rapture among them.
“That our notes are new, we deny,
A thousand times over we've sung them,
Be it thrush or linnet or dove!”
“Nay, but ye birds, one and all,
Now sing with a rounded completeness,
From matin to vesper call;
Where got ye that marvelous sweetness?”
“From the voice of the soul of thy love!”

They were all more subtle than I,
Who knelt in rapt worship before them.
“The roses of summers gone by,
Didst thou so praise, so adore them,
And set them all roses above?”
“Nay; but ye are not the same—
Ye bloom with a beauty supremer;
Where got ye that delicate flame,
Half veiling your petals?” “O dreamer,
From the light of the soul of thy love!”