O star on the breast of the river,
0 marvel of bloom and grace,
Did you fall straight down from heaven
Out of the sweetest place?
You are white as the thoughts of an angel;
Your heart is steeped in the sun;
Did you grow in the golden city,
My pure and radiant one?
Nay, nay, I fell not out of heaven;
None gave me my saintly white;
It slowly grew from the blackness
Down in the dreary night.
From the ooze of the silent river
I won my glory and grace.
White souls fall not, O my poet;
They rise to the sweetest place.
