Richard Watson Gilder (1844–1909)

MY songs are all of thee, what though I sing

Of morning when the stars are yet in sight,

Of evening, or the melancholy night,

Of birds that o’er the reddening waters wing;

Of song, of fire, of winds, or mists that cling

To mountain-tops, of winter all in white,

Of rivers that toward ocean take their flight,

Of summer when the rose is blossoming.

I think no thought that is not thine, no breath

Of life I breathe beyond thy sanctity;

Thou art the voice that silence uttereth,

And of all sound thou art the sense. From thee

The music of my song, and what it saith

Is but the beat of thy heart, throbbed through me.