Sit here before my grate,
Until it’s ashen gray,
Or till the night grows late,
And talk the time away.
I cannot think to sleep,
And miss your golden speech,
My bed of dreams will keep—
You here within my reach.
I have so much to say,
The time is short at best,
A bit of toil and play,
And after that comes rest.
But you and I know now
The wisdom of the soul,
The years that seamed the brow
Have made our visions whole.
Sit here before my grate
Until the ash is cold;
The things you say of late
Are fine as shriven gold.
Even though one be born to sing, if circumstances have made him a preacher he may be expected to moralize his song. Whether we shall be reconciled to this will depend on the art with which it is done. If the moral idea be a sweet human one, and if the verse still be melifluous, we will submit, and our delight will be twofold—ethical and esthetical. We will put our preacher-poet of Missouri to the test:
SO MUCH
So much of love I need,
And tender passioned care,
Of human fault and greed
To make me unaware:
So much of love I owe,
That, ere my life be done,
How shall I keep His will
To owe not any one?
Truth is, Mr. Johnson is not given to preaching in verse any more than other poets. His sole aim is beauty. He assures me it is truth. Instead of admitting disagreement I only assert that, being a poet, he must find all truth beautiful. It is only for relative thinking we need the three terms, truth, goodness, and beauty.