THE SONG OF HER

Thou art my singing and my voice,

Thy life the thing that I would sing,

Perfect past words of perfect choice,

A lovely and a lasting thing.

In every deed of thine, sweetheart,

The poetry of heaven has part

Beyond the gamut of all art,

Leaving me mute and marvelling.

Thy deeds like rhymes I have by heart,

Thy happy deeds of heavenly choice,

Deeds that rise rapt and shine apart

As echoes of a perfect voice

Rise and rejoice when voices sing,

Linger and ring — linger and ring

Till heaven is of their echoing

And all the heights of heaven rejoice.

Thou art the song that I would sing,

The purest song of purest art,

Till men stand mute for marvelling,

Aye, till the singing break Man's heart

Where sorrows glory to rejoice

In perfect notes of perfect choice

And strains of One deep, tender voice

Transfigured joys from sorrows start.

In all this world I have no choice.

If I would sing a lasting thing,

Thou art my singing and my voice.

Poor rhymes that earn no welcoming,

Rhymes that are nothing learned in art,

From heaven, from her, such worlds apart,—

Creep then unto her tender heart

And from her living learn to sing!