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THE POET
Is he alone? The myriad stars shine o'er him,
The flowers bloom for him mid wintry frost;
He needs not sleep to dream,—and dreams restore him
Whatever he has lost.
Is he forsaken? Beauty's self is nigh him,
Closer than bride to the fond lover's arms,—
Veiled, guarding still, to lift and glorify him,
The mystery of her charms.
Unto his soul she speaks in accents moving—
In moving accents meant for him alone,
Revealing, past all visioned heights of loving,
Far-beckoning heights unknown.
