Classic Poem

Thro' patient years we strive and toil,
With rusty pick and ruddy fire,
To wrest the gold from rock and soil,
And mould a crown, and shape a lyre.

A lyre whereon our Love may play
Soft music to our Lady fair,
A crown of gold that we may lay
Upon her crown of golden hair.

But while we toil our hearts grow old,
The lyre we make we cannot play,
And, ere we mould the crown of gold,
The golden hair is growing grey.

But God achieves in wiser ways,
With instant love, and facile art.
No labouring for gold delays
The golden harvest of His heart.

And every leaf is as a tongue,
Giving fit words to our desire,
And singing songs we fain had sung
On our unfinished golden lyre.

And every flower is as a crown
That any Queen might proudly wear.
O Queen of mine, bend down, bend down,
I, kneeling, bring them for your hair.

Fair Lady, I, whose love is strong,
Altho' my words and deeds are weak,
Send with the flowers my unsung song,
And all the words I cannot speak,

And all the crowns I fain would reach,
And all the deeds I fain would do,
O Lady fair, their golden speech
Has many messages for you.

Unwrought is still my crown of gold,
My golden lyre-strings still are dumb,
Yet may my love perchance be told
By lips of a chrysanthemum.