Heritage

Now the dead past seems vividly alive,

And in this shining moment I can trace,

Down through the vista of the vanished years,

Your faun-like form, your fond elusive face.

And suddenly some secret spring's released,

And unawares a riddle is revealed,

And I can read like large, black-lettered print,

What seemed before a thing forever sealed.

I know the magic word, the graceful thought,

The song that fills me in my lucid hours,

The spirit's wine that thrills my body through,

And makes me music-drunk, are yours, all yours.

I cannot praise, for you have passed from praise,

I have no tinted thoughts to paint you true;

But I can feel and I can write the word;

The best of me is but the least of you.