To Miss Constance Crawley

By George Sterling

From "Everyman"

Thine is the frailest of the arts
    And like the flower must pass;
Its empery in human hearts
    Dies with the voice, alas!

The poet tells to years unborn
    His dreams of joy or woe;
His crown is of a father morn,
    From hands he shall not know.

Tho' time, in tardy reckoning,
    Placed laurels on my brow,
Sing as I might, I could not sing
    A fairer dream than thou —

Who by thine art and haunting face
    Hast filled a thoughtful hour
With somewhat of the passing grace
    Of twilight and the flow'r.

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