Thou father of the children of my brain

By thee engendered in my willing heart,

How can I thank thee for this gift of art

Poured out so lavishly, and not in vain.

What thou created never more can die,

Thy fructifying power lives in me

And I conceive, knowing it is by thee,

Dear other parent of my poetry!

For I was but a shadow with a name,

Perhaps by now the very names forgot;

So strange is Fate that it has been my lot

To learn through thee the presence of that aim

Which evermore must guide me. All unknown,

By me unguessed, by thee not even dreamed,

A tree has blossomed in a night that seemed

Of stubborn, barren wood. For thou hast sown

This seed of beauty in a ground of truth.

Humbly I dedicate myself, and yet

I tremble with a sudden fear to set

New music ringing through my fading youth.