The Poet Care

CARE is a Poet fine: He works in shade or shine, And leaves—you know his sign!— No day without its line. He writes with iron pen Upon the brows of men; Faint lines at first, and then He scores them in again. His touch at first is light On Beauty’s brow of white; The old churl loves to write On foreheads broad and bright. A line for young love crossed, A line for fair hopes lost In an untimely frost— A line that means Thou Wast. Then deeper script appears: The furrows of dim fears, The traces of old tears, The tide-marks of the years. To him with sight made strong By suffering and wrong, The brows of all the throng Are eloquent with song.