Page:Poems Argent.djvu/68

To mould in form the thoughts that dwell
Deep in the soul invisible.

It is not yours to sit and paint
The pictured glory of the saint,
To wander in the halls of Art
With all an artist's yearning heart,
To charm the eye with visions bright
From dazzling fields of ideal light.

It is not yours to find a voice
Where music dwells, and doth rejoice
The many millions,—nor to bring
Melodious echoes when you sing,
And claim the memory that bounds
The senses by sweet spirit sounds.

But it is yours, my child, to be
A silent song, that sings to me
In angels' music from the sphere
Where only God perchance may hear;
For blinded eyes upon this earth
See not the wings of heavenly birth:

And, loving Millicent of mine,
Yours is the priceless gift divine,
To minister to others' needs
In holy sacrament of deeds;
To shine with pure and steadfast ray
In darkest night and dullest day;