I never made a poem, dear friend--I never sat me down, and said,This cunning brain and patient handShall fashion something to be read.
Men often came to me, and prayedI should indite a fitting verseFor fast, or festival, or inSome stately pageant to rehearse.(As if, than Balaam more endowed,I of myself could bless or curse.)
Reluctantly I bade them go,Ungladdened by my poet-mite;My heart is not so churlish butIts loves to minister delight.
But not a word I breathe is mineTo sing, in praise of man or God;My Master calls, at noon or night,I know his whisper and his nod.
Yet all my thoyghts to rhythms run,To rhyme, my wisdom and my wit?True, I consume my life in verse,But wouldst thou know how that is writ?
'T is thus--through weary length of days,I bear a thought within my breastThat greatens from my growth of soul,And waits, and will not be expressed.
It greatens, till its hour has come,Not without pain, it sees the light;'Twixt smiles and tears I view it o'er,And dare not deem it perfect, quite.
These children of my soul I keepWhere scarce a mortal man may see,Yet not unconsecrate, dear friend,Baptismal rites they claim of thee.
