The Poet

The Poet is the loneliest man that lives;
Ah me! God makes him so --
The sea hath its ebb and flow,
He sings his songs -- but yet he only gives
In the waves of the words of his art
Only the foam of his heart.

Its sea rolls on forever, evermore,
Beautiful, vast, and deep;
Only his shallowest thoughts touch the shore
Of Speech; his deepest sleep.

The foam that crests the wave is pure and white;
The foam is not the wave;
The wave is not the sea -- it rolls forever on;
The winding shores will crave
A kiss from ev'ry wavelet on the deep;
Some come; some always sleep.