To A Poet

Woo a little choir of words, Teach them to sing; Let them thrill the air like birds Love-summoning. Thread the silence with a lute, Sound the spiral of a flute. ... Vain, but vain. The words are mute.

Open now your own heart Where a rose may be; Live your love and use your art, Make melody, For your joy, your joy is there, Sing the secret thing you bear! ... Only silence everywhere.

... Show the ancient pain that lies With remembered things Down the dark within your eyes Where nothing sings. Now at last there throng Images that waited long, And the silence flowers in song.