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
By T. A. Daly
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
