For Her

FOR HER Reading the Love-Sonnet 'Tis love, not gold, that is the poet's need, Its wealth the world makes his in slender dole; Yet shall the poet false be to his creed? — Though the gold lingers, love makes glad his soul. Without love's payment still the poet starves, Love fills life's silences with love's own chimes; For love the artist paints, the sculptor carves, The poet in his love makes live his rhymes. My voice to steady, O in vain, I tried, And dared not look into thine earnest eyes; The words that trembled all my care belied; Thy cheek now pale now flush in vermil dyes: Yet thine one sigh, in worth, is more than gold, Therein, for me, was love's sweet message told. Alfred Lambourne.