Poems (Freston)/To the Poet

by Elizabeth Heléne Freston

TO THE POET

If I could reach above the clouds at even
And pluck the stars that gem the arch of heaven,
I'd weave a garland of those twinkling flowers,
To deck the brows that hold poetic powers.
But no! I must stoop low to earth for these,
The very simplest little flowers, the breeze
Will kiss in passing, bear their perfume by,
To mingle with the lark's song in the sky.
But still this humble offering I bring
The poet who is greater than a king.

He who in fancy roamed the world of flowers
And dreamed his dreams in the enchanted bowers
Of fairy lore, and tender old romance,
Will view, I know, with kindly loving glance,
Each petal's tint, so delicately rare,
That but a God's smile could have made so fair,
No royal flower of beauty offer I,—
The rose blooms not within my reach, nor shy,
Sweet violet that is famed in song;
But these small flowerets I have tended long,
And watched them turn from bud to blossom fair,
And offer perfumes for my faithful care.

They freely give the world their utmost store,
Smiling, and grieve not that it is not more.
What matter to them that God's tender love
Has decked the rose more richly. From above
They, too, have fallen from His lavish hand,
To gladden earth and smile at His command.
I love these little Pinks! Each sunset tone
Some petal's edge has captured for its own.
Some opal-tinted cloud has left a trace
Upon each upturned, coaxing, tender face,
Some lazy zephyr, from the golden South,
Has kissed, with spicy breath, each loving mouth.
All the best elements of earth and air
Combine to make this little flower so fair.
And so this offering I can dare to bring
The poet, who is greater than a king.