Poems (Freston)/To the Poet
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.