THANKS

 HER griefs were the hours 
When my struggle was sore,-- 
Her joys were the powers 
That the climber upbore.
 

Her home is the boundless 
Free ocean that seems 
To rock, calm and soundless, 
My galleon of dreams.
 

Half hers are the glancing 
Creations that throng 
With pageant and dancing 
The ways of my song.
 

My fires when they dwindle 
Are lit from her brand; 
Men see them rekindle 
Nor guess by whose hand.
 

Of thanks to requite her 
No least thought is hers,-- 
And therefore I write her, 
Once, thanks in a verse.

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