A POET TO HIS MUSE

Long ago I knew that brown integument,

Like a dead husk, had dormant life within it,

And waited till a first white point appeared

Which shot into a naked stiff pale spike

That grew.

I knew this was not all;

Nothing I said as greener you grew and taller,

But dreamed alone of the day when your bud would unsheathe,

And silently swell, and at last your crown would break

Filling the air with clouds of colour and fragrance,

Radiant waves, odours of immortality.

In a pot of earth I watered and tended you,

Breaking the clods and soaking the earth with water

That fed your roots and eased your way to the light.

I gave you the sun and the rain

But saved you from scorching and drowning:

You are mine, and only I know you,

And the ways of your growth, and the days.

But you are not from me.

I am but a pen for a hand,

A bed for a river,

A window for light.

And I bow in awe to that Power

That made you a flower.