THE POEM

There sleeps a poem in my mind

        That shall my entire soul express.

I feel it vague as sound and wind

        Yet sculptured in full definiteness.

It has no stanza, verse or word.

        Ev'n as l dream it, it is not.

'Tis a mere feeling of it, blurred,

        And but a happy mist round thought.

Day and night in my mystery

        I dream and read and spell it over,

And ever round words' brink in me

        Its vague completeness seems to hover.

I know it never shall be writ.

        I know I know not what it is.

But I am happy dreaming it,

        And false bliss, although false, is bliss.