Like a distant unknown star.

Now in London in the Springtime,
I am sitting here, your guest.
Nay--I think it is a vision, or a fancy -
Part of dreamland Necromancy;
And I question: is it true
That the great warm hearts of you,
Heard the winging of that singing in the West,
Heard the chiming of my rhyming
From the farmhouse in the West?

Let me linger in the fancy,
For the soul of me is stirred
As I dream that I am sitting here among you;
And the songs that I have sung you
Shall grow stronger through the art
Of heart speaking unto heart,
Through the gladness of the singer who is heard
Lo! my songs have crossed the ocean
But the voice of my emotion finds no word.



SEE?



If one proves weak who you fancied strong,
Or false who you fancied true,