Ah me ! the mighty love that I have borne

Ah me ! the mighty love that I have borne
To thee, sweet Song ! A perilous gift was it
My mother gave me that September morn
When sorrow, song, and life were at one altar lit.

A gift more perilous than the priest's ; his lore
Is all of books and to his books extends ;
And what they see and know he knows — no more,
And with their knowing all his knowing ends.

A gift more perilous than the painter's ; he
In his divinest moments only sees
The inhumanities of colour ; we
Feel each and all the inhumanities.