George Frederick Cameron (1854–1885)

AH me! the mighty love that I have borne

To thee, sweet Song! A perilous gift was it

My mother gave me that September morn

When sorrow, song, and life were at one altar lit.

A gift more perilous than the priest’s; his lore

Is all of books and to his books extends;

And what they see and know he knows—no more,

And with their knowing all his knowing ends.

A gift more perilous than the painter’s; he

In his divinest moments only sees

The inhumanities of colour; we

Feel each and all the inhumanities.