John William Inchbold - Dedicatory

To that unconscious Beauty that has wrought
In me, through many years in many lands,
By stream and wood and plain and barren strands,
The joy that only comes of lovely thought,
Of Beauty born and Nature nourishèd,
And season-clothed in vestments fresh and pure,
With all about a heavenly garniture:—
Fresh coloured flowery thought by young dawn fed,
Or dim and glorious grown by moon and star.—
To Thee, whose breath of life is to diffuse
Rare joy and strength, I proffer each fair line,
That if but one sweet-souled true rhyme from far
Shall reach thine ear and touch thy heart, my Muse
May rest content in thus becoming thine.

John William Inchbold

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