Frances Laughton Mace (1836–1899)

ASK me not which of all my songs is thine!

Ask of the Spring, when first the blossoms stir,

Which of their fairy pennons waves for her;

Ask of the Night what star of all that shine

Is her own signet, peerless and divine;

Ask of the Sun which purple follower

Among the clouds is his sole worshipper,

Lifting at dawn his colors and his sign.

As stars are born of night, as flowers of spring,

As clouds the vivid hues of sunlight wear,

And all an equal rank and kinship know,

So is thy memory the awakening,

The living warmth, the radiance large and fair

In which all songs of mine to utterance grow.