The Promise of the Morning Star

          Thou father of the children of my brain
           By thee engendered in my willing heart,
           How can I thank thee for this gift of art
          Poured out so lavishly, and not in vain.

          What thou created never more can die,
           Thy fructifying power lives in me
           And I conceive, knowing it is by thee,
          Dear other parent of my poetry!

          For I was but a shadow with a name,
           Perhaps by now the very name's forgot;
           So strange is Fate that it has been my lot
          To learn through thee the presence of that aim

          Which evermore must guide me. All unknown,
           By me unguessed, by thee not even dreamed,
           A tree has blossomed in a night that seemed
          Of stubborn, barren wood. For thou hast sown

          This seed of beauty in a ground of truth.
           Humbly I dedicate myself, and yet
           I tremble with a sudden fear to set
          New music ringing through my fading youth.

This poem is in the public domain. 

About this Poem

From A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass (Houghton Mifflin Company, 1912).