Page:Dreams and Images.djvu/65

 I marked thee, sorrow's votary, When in the noon of day Young vandals stormed, thy sacred tree And bore thine all away; The notes of grief that rent thy breast touched kindred chords in mine, For memories of other days, though slumbering still confine In mine own heart The bitter smart Of sorrow such as thine.

I hear thee now, sweet votary, Beside thy ruined nest, Lift up thy flood of melody Against the crimsoned west, Forgetful of all else in this, thy one sweet joyous strain. I thank thee for this ecstasy of my remembered pain; Thou liftest up       My sorrow's cup To sweeten it again.

THE POET

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, Make's voluble the thoughts that fill