The Poet
I
A priest of Heaven, some gracious hour,
Lowered to him chasuble and stole;
He sings a weed — it is a flower;
He sings a star — it is a soul.
II
He knows her voice, he heeds her call,
And Beauty holds him to her mother's-heart;
There lavishes — last gift of all —
The secrecies of speech, eternal art.
III
The poet marvels, while he sings,
At strangest bright eternal things.
The accent is not all his own;
Betimes the god sings on alone.
A priest of Heaven, some gracious hour,
Lowered to him chasuble and stole;
He sings a weed — it is a flower;
He sings a star — it is a soul.
II
He knows her voice, he heeds her call,
And Beauty holds him to her mother's-heart;
There lavishes — last gift of all —
The secrecies of speech, eternal art.
III
The poet marvels, while he sings,
At strangest bright eternal things.
The accent is not all his own;
Betimes the god sings on alone.
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