I read it in thy gifted page,
In every noble thought,
Each lofty feeling, and sweet song
With tenderness deep fraught;
For there thine inmost soul was shown,—
Their truth, their beauty, were thine own.
For out on the vain worldling's speech
Which saith the poet's skill
But sets forth feelings he has not;
Worked up, wrought out at will.
What knows he of that sacred feeling?
He hath no part in its revealing.
And if sometimes he is not all
That his own song has sung,
It is but part of that great curse
Which still to earth has clung.
Whoe'er has seen, who yet shall see
Himself as he deemed he could be?
The mind can win eternity
With its immortal name,
But all too often happiness
Is the price paid for fame:
For not a barbed shaft can fly
But aims to strike the mark on high.
