John Albee (1833–1915)

DOST thou, belovèd, see

That even poesy

Hath rights like thine and mine?

Dost thou its harmonies

Observe, and how there lies

Along the builded line

The touch, the frequent ties

The muses love to twine?

See, at the very end

The loving words must blend

In ’cording rhymes, and kiss,

Their meaning not to miss,

Ere they onward flow

Some other mood to show.

So do our hearts rehearse,

In earnest or in play,

The self-same pulse-like verse,

And lips seal what lips say.