  Thy birthday, dear? Oh, would I had the poet's art By which I could my wish impart For thy new year; But e'en a poet's pen of gold Would fail my wish to thee unfold In earthly sphere. Thy birthday, dear? Oh, would I had the painter's skill Prophetic visions to fulfill For thy new year; But e'en a painter's rarest brush Would but my holy visions crush, Or fail to cheer. Thy birthday, dear? Oh, would I had sweet music's aid To vitalize the prayers I've made For thy new year; Alas! not even music's best Could put in form my soul's behest For thee, my dear. That only will expression find In purest depths of thine own mind This coming year; As, guided by the inner light, There'll come to thee the new-born sight Of ravished seer. But in this sight thou may'st so feel Eternal beauty o'er thee steal— God's gift, my dear— That thou can'st find the blessed art In form appear. Yet, it may be a heaven's birthday Will have to dawn for us to say Our best things, dear. For, as thou know'st, Truth's deepest well Must e'er reflect, its depths to tell Heaven's atmosphere. |
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