The Poet

by John Vance Cheney

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