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 uncoverWhat 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 discoverOnly, my lover,A lore of life and love thy handLearned from two hearts to understand,A melodyGod-given as a gift to thee.