My works, dear poet wife, are set In squares of awkward alphabet; But yours in curves of living grace, From dancing feet to happy face: For though my verse were beauty's pearl, Your poem is a little girl! Stiff-penned I picture love's dear bliss; Your poem thrills me with a kiss. I write of music -- lame and long; Your poem is a living song. My verses ape a clumsy wit; In lines of laughter yours are writ. What patient days and weary nights, What fears, what hopes, and what delights You pack into your poem, dear, With loving toil of year by year; While I -- a scrawling page or two, A headache, and the thing will do! My dullard, barren verses fall Expiring to the old-book stall; While your sweet poem, age on age, Reprinted in a wider page, Will bear the image of yourself To Time's remotest, fairest shelf! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SLANTS AT BUFFALO, NEW YORK by CARL SANDBURG DEAD MAN'S DUMP by ISAAC ROSENBERG THE REASON by LEONARD BACON (1887-1954) SONNET TO NICHOLAS BLACKLEECH OF GRAYES INNE by RICHARD BARNFIELD TO JOSEPH JOACHIM by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 5 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |