COME, tender sunlight of the spring, and shine Through all my thoughts; my inmost being fill, Teaching my heart to glow, and yet be still, With that victorious quiet which is thine. Oh that my hand had cunning to combine The tints wherewith thou robest copse and hill! But I, so rich in love, am poor in skill, And praise fair Truth, yet may not build her shrine. But every spirit, worshipping aright, Must glory in the gifts that others bring; So would I triumph -- not as one apart, But with the kindred throng who love the light, Joying in beauty that transcends my art, And mutely dreaming notes I cannot sing. |