To J. R. Barrick

OH poet, to my ]one and swelling heartHow gently comes the message sent by thine;It speaks to me of all I know thou art,For thy high soul glows in each burning line.I ne'er have met thee on the earth, but thouHast wakened visions that will long remain,Shedding their holy brightness on my brow,And haunting with their glory heart and brain.

Yes, poet, to my soul, as to thine own,The world is bright, and if dark grief awhileClouds the high visions of my spirit lone,I find no gloom in Nature's blessed smile.The flowers still blow as in my childhood's years,The sunset hangs as lovely on the sky,And the dear moon wakes still the happy tearsHer pale face wakened in the years gone by.

And earth is brighter still, that souls like thineAre sent by Heaven beneath the skies, to giveTo cold realities a tinge divine,And make it a sweet luxury to live.Such spirits lend a deep ideal glowTo wave, to wildwood, rainbow, star and flower,Charming from human life the shades of woeBy the strong spell of their mysterious power.

And thou hast stolen even from this dull,Cold heart of mine, one-half its weight of pain,And made existence almost beautifulBy the strange magic of thy heavenly strain.Lured by thy tones, my weeping spirit turnsFrom all earth's cares, its bitterness and strife,And, leaning on thy noble spirit, learnsTo taste the glorious ecstasies of life.

Oh, earth to thee must be a Paradise,Where birds are singing ever o'er thy head,Where silver fountains picture golden skies,And loveliest flowers spring up beneath thy treadAnd there blest spirits, beautiful and bright,High angel-natures, love with thee to roamAt morn, at eve, mad in the silent night,And talk with thee of thy immortal home.