Poems (Blake)/The Poet's Rival
THE POET'S RIVAL!
Across my lap the baby lies The soul-light dawning in his eyes;I, bending, turn aside to look Adown the pages of my book.
With flash of thought and fair conceit, The fair lines run on rhythmic feet;And sparkling fancies gem the brink Of this clear well from which I drink.
But sudden, all the poet's skill Is dimmed by something sweeter still,And all his dreamings, high and grand, Lie hid beneath a baby's hand.
I stoop to kiss its dimpled grace, I turn to read my darling's face,While falls unheeded to the floor The broken spell which binds no more.
O glow of wit! O prayer of saint! O brightest picture pen can paint! O golden rhythmic rise and fall! My little love is worth you all.
For soaring thought and wingèd word, That pierce the sky like flight of bird,May bring the joys of heaven more near, But Heaven itself is with me here!