To the Versifier

The verses that you sing are not of mine,
Nor yet of Homer, nor of Virgil's strain;
I do not spin a web of thought divine,
Nor weave a cloak with phrases bright and vain.

I cannot boast of beauty, wit, or grace,
Nor can I charm by outward show and guise;
Nor can I boast of learning, time, or place,
Nor win the ear of critics to my lies.

But I have seen the world, and I have felt
The sting of sorrow, and have known its balm;
And in my heart, though often it has knelt
In bitter pain, there still remains a psalm.

A psalm of hope, a song of trust and love,
That lifts the soul and bids it onward fly,
To seek the light that shines from realms above,
And find its peace beneath a brighter sky.