To Miss Constance Crawley
By George Sterling
From "Everyman"
Thine is the frailest of the arts
And like the flower must pass;
Its empery in human hearts
Dies with the voice, alas!
The poet tells to years unborn
His dreams of joy or woe;
His crown is of a father morn,
From hands he shall not know.
Tho' time, in tardy reckoning,
Placed laurels on my brow,
Sing as I might, I could not sing
A fairer dream than thou —
Who by thine art and haunting face
Hast filled a thoughtful hour
With somewhat of the passing grace
Of twilight and the flow'r.
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