Thou Art To Me

    Thou art to me
As are soft breezes to a summer sea;
    As stars unto the night;
    Or when the day is born,
    As sunrise to the morn;
As peace unto the fading of the light.

    Thou art to me
As one sweet flower upon a barren lea;
    As rest to toiling hands;
As one clear spring amid the desert sands;
    As smiles to maidens' lips;
As hope to friends that wait for absent ships;
    As happiness to youth;
    As purity to truth;
    As sweetest dreams to sleep;
As balm to wounded hearts that weep.
All, all that I would have thee be
    Thou art to me.

Arthur Macy

Arthur Macy was an American poet known for his contributions during the 19th century. Born on June 6, 1842, he became widely recognized for his poignant and evocative verses, which often reflected themes of nature and human emotion. His poetry gained considerable respect and admiration during his lifetime. He passed away on June 1, 1904.

Arthur Macy

All On A Golden Summer Day

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

Wind And Rain

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

To M. E.

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

The Criminal

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

English

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Were All The World Like You

Were all the world like you, my dear,
    Were all the world like you,
Oh, there'd be darts in all our hearts
    From sunset to the dew.
For life would be Love's jubilee
    Where all were two and two,
And lovers' rhyme the only crime,
    Were all the world like you, my dear,
    Were all the world like you.

Were all the world like you, my dear,
    Were all the world like you,
There'd be no pain nor clouds nor rain,
    No kisses overdue;
But sweetest sighs and pleading eyes,
    Where Cupid's arrow flew,
And lovers' rhyme the only crime,
    Were all the world like you, my dear,
    Were all the world like you.

Arthur Macy

At Twilight Time

At twilight time when tolls the chime,
    And saddest notes are falling,
A lonely bird with plaintive word
    Across the dusk is calling.
Vain doth it wait for one dear mate,
    That ne'er shall know the morrow;
Then sinks to rest with drooping crest
    In one long dream of sorrow.

Dearest, when night is here,
    To thee I'm calling,
Sadly as tear on tear
    Is slowly falling,
Oh, fold me near, more near -
    In love enthralling!
Here on thy breast,
    While life shall last,
With thee I stay.
    Here will I rest
Till night is past,
    And comes the day!

Arthur Macy

To M.

Sweet visions came to me in sleep,
    Ah! wondrous fair to see;
And in my mind I strove to keep
    The dream to tell to thee.

But morning broke with golden gleam,
    And shone upon thy face,
And life was lovelier than a dream,
    And dreams had lost their grace.

Arthur Macy

A Poet's Lesson

Poet, my master, come, tell me true,
    And how are your verses made?
Ah! that is the easiest thing to do: -
You take a cloud of a silvern hue,
A tender smile or a sprig of rue,
    With plenty of light and shade,

And weave them round in syllables rare,
    With a grace and skill divine;
With the earnest words of a pleading prayer,
With a cadence caught from a dulcet air,
A tale of love and a lock of hair,
    Or a bit of a trailing vine.

Or, delving deep in a mine unwrought,
    You find in the teeming earth
The golden vein of a noble thought;
The soul of a statesman still unbought,
Or a patriot's cry with anguish fraught
    For the land that gave him birth.

A brilliant youth who has lost his way
    On the winding road of l...

Arthur Macy

My Masterpiece

I wrote the truest, tend'rest song
    The world had ever heard;
And clear, melodious, and strong,
    And sweet was every word.
The flowing numbers came to me
    Unbidden from the heart;
So pure the strain, that poesy
    Seemed something more than art.

No doubtful cadence marred a line,
    So tunefully it flowed,
And through the measure, all divine
    The fire of genius glowed.
So deftly were the verses wrought,
    So fair the legend told,
That every word revealed a thought,
    And every thought was gold.

Mine was the charm, the power, the skill,
    The wisdom of the years;
'Twas mine to move the world at will
    To laughter or to tears.
For subtile pleasantry was there,
    And brilliant flash of wit;
Now, pl...

Arthur Macy

Less Than The Cloud To The Wind

Less than the cloud to the wind,
Less than the foam to the sea,
Less than the rose to the storm
Am I to thee.

More than the star to the night,
More than the rain to the lea,
More than heaven to earth
Art thou to me.

Sara Teasdale