Louis Loeb

THINE was a poet’s soul; thine was a heart

Where love and friendship, truth and right abode.

Hebraic rhapsody and Grecian ode

Surged in thy blood. Nature stood not apart;

With gracious smile she wedded thee to Art;

The seeing eye, the wizard touch bestowed,

Into thy brain her forms and colors flowed,

Transfixed by Inspiration’s flaming dart.

Sweet were the idylls by the genius wooed:

The misty dawn, bright morning, radiant noon,

The joyous life, the forests’ solitude,—

And peaceful reverie. Thine now the boon

Of bearing a full sheaf, through struggles rude,

Into the twilight’s vale,—but all too soon.