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By T. A. Daly

The truest poet is not one

Whose golden fancies fuse and run

To moulded phrases, crusted o’er

With flashing gems of metaphor;

Whose art, responsive to his will,

Makes voluble the thoughts that fill

The cultured windings of his brain,

Yet takes no soundings of the pain,

The joy, the yearnings of the heart

Untrammeled by the bonds of art,

O! poet truer far than he

Is such a one as you may be,

When in the quiet night you keep

Mute vigil on the marge of sleep.

If then, with beating heart, you mark

God’s nearer presence in the dark,

And musing on the wondrous ways

Of Him who numbers all your days,

Pay tribute to Him with your tears

For joys, for sorrows, hopes and fears

Which he has blessed and given to you,

You are the poet, great and true.

For there are songs within the heart

Whose perfect melody no art

Can teach the tongue of man to phrase.

These are the songs His poets raise,

When in the night they keep

Mute vigil on the marge of sleep.