The poet's lovely faith creates
The beauty he believes;
The light which on his footsteps waits,
He from himself receives.

His lot may be a weary lot;
His thrall a heavy thrall;
And cares and griefs the crowd know not,
His heart may know them all:

But still he hath a mighty dower,
The loveliness that throws
Over the common thought and hour
The beauty of the rose.