TO A POET

As one, the secret lover of a queen,

Watches her move within the people's eye,

Hears their poor chatter as she passes by,

And smiles to think of what his eyes have seen;

The little room where love did‘ shut them in,’

The fragrant couch whereon they twain did lie,

And rests his hand where on his heart doth die

A bruised daffodil of last night's sin:

So, Poet, as I read your rhyme once more

Here where a thousand eyes may read it too,

I smile your own sweet secret smile at those

Who deem the outer petals of the rose

The rose's heart — I, who through grace of you,

Have known it for my own so long before.