The Poet’s Mite

I can’t lead armies in the fray,

Or win rich honors at the play;

I can’t paint pictures that will bring

A passing look from serf or king.

I cannot touch the mystic keys

That music-hungry hearts appease.

O, ‘tis so little I can do

To thrill the Pilgrim passing through;

Life is so short, and time so long

And ways so loud, lost is one’s song.

But if my modest pencil can

Bring but a smile to the face of man,

Or bring a tremor of good cheer

I shan’t regret my journey here.

Jan. 28, ‘10