Page:Ethel Churchill Fragments I.pdf/22



The poet's lovely faith creates The beauty he believes; The light which on his footsteps waits, He from himself receives.

His lot may be a weary lot; His thrall a heavy thrall; And cares and griefs the crowd know not, His heart may know them all:

But still he hath a mighty dower, The loveliness that throws Over the common thought and hour The beauty of the rose.