by John Vance Cheney
A priest of Heaven, some gracious hour,
Lowered to him chasuble and stole;
He sings a weed — it is a flower;
He sings a star — it is a soul.
He knows her voice, he heeds her call,
And Beauty holds him to her mother's-heart;
There lavishes — last gift of all —
The secrecies of speech, eternal art.
The poet marvels, while he sings,
At strangest bright eternal things.
The accent is not all his own;
Betimes the god sings on alone.
Last updated January 14, 2019