Classic Poem

The songs I make, they are not mine,
They all belong to her
Whose words in some strange way combine
To set my heart astir.

If but her eyes look down on me
The while I pause to write,
By some swift touch of sorcery
The sombre lines grow bright.

Her voice upon me lays a spell
Of music soft and sweet;
Imperfectly, what she may tell,
My lyrics but repeat.

I am as one who hears the thrush
In some leaf covert dim,
And in the intermittent hush
Ponders the dew-fresh hymn:

Or one who in a shadowed place
Watches the stars agleam
And knows their beauty on his face
Illumining his dream:

Or one who catches from the rose
A fragrant message sent
From crimson lips and straightway knows
All of the Orient.

Like these am I, and all my rhymes
Are but the records clear
That write themselves at magic times
When she, the Muse, is near.

For could I make my own her song,
Unto the world I'd give
A lyric which should live as long
As song itself shall live!