The Poet
By Theodosia Garrison
He made him a love o' dreams--
He raised for his heart's delight--
(As the heart of June a crescent moon)
A frail, fair spirit of light.
He gave her the gift of joy--
The gift of the dancing feet--
He made her a thing of very Spring--
Virginal--wild and sweet.
But when he would draw her near
To his eager heart's content,
As a sunbeam slips from the finger-tips
She slipped from his hold and went.
Virginal--wild--and sweet--
So she eludes him still--
The love that he made of dawn and shade
Of dominant want and will.
For ever the dream of man
Is more than the dreamer is;
Though he form it whole of his inmost soul,
Yet never 'tis wholly his.
Only is given to him
The right to follow and yearn
The loveliness he may not possess,
The vision that may not turn.
Never to hold or to bind--
Only to know how fleet
The dream that is and yet is not his,--
Virginal--wild--and sweet.