Poems (Van Rensselaer)/To her Poet
TO HER POET
Thy singing cannot ever need that IShould praise its lessons or its melody,And secrets of its birth that I might tellHide in my heart, hide and are covered well. Should I to all the world uncover What thou, my lover, Learned of thy loving and of me, And what is dream and imagery— The voice of art, God-spoken to the poet's heart?
Nay, did I try I could not well appraiseThe harvest of our length of summer days,Set here thy golden sheaves and yonder mine—The gold I gathered that it might be thine. In all thy pages I discover Only, my lover, A lore of life and love thy hand Learned from two hearts to understand, A melody God-given as a gift to thee.