I WRITE my poem In words that burn, Through the long, long hours of night; Lo! the stolen flame Bears another name, When read by the morning light.
With unearthly beauty, My dream-brush glows, On Dreamland's walls so fair; Lo! I find my ideal Another's real, And mine hath vanished in air.
From the fairest marble In Fancy's realm, I am shaping my glorious thought; From Art's proud walls, Lo! a statue calls, A thief, while I dreamed, hath wrought.
So another weareth my laurel wreath, Another's brow my crown; And while I ponder this bitter wrong,— How to sing, that the ear Of the world may hear,— Lo, another hath sung my song!
