I Stand Here

I stand here just a poet, as you see,
With nothing more than verses in my hand.
The coverings of wealth don’t cover me
Who wears but cloth of paper, maybe sand.
My poems may live for ages, or for none;
May die as morning mist in morning sun,
My name wash soundless on a silent shore,
Where sighs of love sink wordless evermore.
Yet here, on this fair strand, I sing aright
Love’s soul that is your soul, is my soul’s light.
You breathe between your lips to hearing’s eyes
Deep heart-warm music for my lost, blind skies;
I dream, imagine, see, that you are real,
And raise my speaking hand to my ideal.

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