The Poet

He made him a love o' dreams--     He raised for his heart's delight--     (As the heart of June a crescent moon)     A frail, fair spirit of light.     He gave her the gift of joy--     The gift of the dancing feet--     He made her a thing of very Spring--     Virginal--wild and sweet.     But when he would draw her near     To his eager heart's content,     As a sunbeam slips from the finger-tips     She slipped from his hold and went.     Virginal--wild--and sweet--     So she eludes him still--     The love that he made of dawn and shade     Of dominant want and will.     For ever the dream of man     Is more than the dreamer is;     Though he form it whole of his inmost soul,     Yet never 'tis wholly his.     Only is given to him     The right to follow and yearn     The loveliness he may not possess,     The vision that may not turn.     Never to hold or to bind--     Only to know how fleet     The dream that is and yet is not his,--     Virginal--wild--and sweet.