The Poet

Sunlight was something more than that to him. 
It was a halo when it formed a rim 
Around some far-off mountain peak. He called 
It thin-beat leaf of gold, and stood enthralled 
When it lay still on some half-sheltered spot 
In gilt mosaics where the trees forgot 
To hide the grasses carpeting the spot.

The sky to him was not just the blue sky, 
But a deep, painted bowl with clouds piled high; 
And when these clouds were tinted burning red,  
Or gold and bacchic purple, then he said: 
“The too-full goblets of the gods had over-run, 
Nor give the credit to the disappearing sun 
Who flames before he leaves the world in dun.”

Between his eyes and life fate seemed to hold 
A magic tissue of transparent gold, 
That freed his vision from the dull, drab, hopeless part, 
And kept alive a fresh, unsaddened heart. 
And all unselfishly he tried to share 
His gift with us who see the harsh and bare;  
But we refused. We did not know nor care.