Given the heart of the summer,
Given the bloom of the vine,
Where beauty is rife with the honey of life, —
What would you do, poet mine?

Given the depths of the ocean, —
The paths where the white stars shine,
The mystery of birth and the pulse of the earth, —
What would you do, poet mine? —

Weave me a rhythmical cadence,
Twine me a garlanded line, —
Etch on my heart all the pathos of art, —
What can you do, poet mine? —

Art, you have broken your burin;
Heart, faded the blossoms you twine, —
But treasures are yours, all of time's mellow stores, —
Why will you lose, poet mine? —

Go winnow the silence for heartbeats,
Thresh the fulness of time for the sign, —
Point the burin of art in the depths of your heart,
Ere you write on the world's, poet mine.

Then string the white pearls of your fancy,
On the thread of your thought, spun and fine,
For the world will hear well the sweet story you tell,
With its burden of love, poet mine!