Fair are the flowers and the children, but their
subtle suggestion is fairer;
Rare is the rose-burst of dawn, but the secret
that clasps it is rarer;
Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain
that precedes it is sweeter;
And never was poem yet writ, but the meaning
outmastered the metre.
Never a daisy that grows, but a mystery guideth the growing;
Never a river that flows, but a majesty sceptres
the flowing;
Never a Shakespeare that soared, but a stronger
than he did enfold him;
Nor ever a prophet foretells, but a mightier seer
hath foretold him.
Back of the canvas that throbs, the painter is
hinted and hidden:
Into the statue that breathes, the soul of the
sculptor is bidden;
Under the joy that is felt, lie the infinite issues
of feeling;
Crowning the glory revealed, is the glory that
crowns the revealing.
