Be gentle with me; for thou knowest not yet

Be gentle with me; for thou knowest not yet
The utter need there is in me of love.
Oh! though the poets' brows, bay-crowned above,
Shine famously,— look close, their eyes are wet.
The sorrow of all the earth God's hand has set

Upon them for a wreath, — and in strange fashion
To understand in soul earth's every passion:
For this it is that earth is in their debt.
What the slow heartless lover cannot feel,
The poet feels for him; and tear-drops steal

Adown his cheeks when others cannot sorrow.
What wonder then if sometimes in his heart
There is a yearning he cannot impart,
And sweet would seem a night without a morrow!