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Poetry of Amy Lowell
A Dome of Many-coloured Glass

The Promise of the Morning Star

Thou father of the children of my brain
 By thee engendered in my willing heart,
 How can I thank thee for this gift of art
Poured out so lavishly, and not in vain.

What thou created never more can die,
 Thy fructifying power lives in me
 And I conceive, knowing it is by thee,
Dear other parent of my poetry!

For I was but a shadow with a name,
 Perhaps by now the very name's forgot;
 So strange is Fate that it has been my lot
To learn through thee the presence of that aim

Which evermore must guide me.  All unknown,
 By me unguessed, by thee not even dreamed,
 A tree has blossomed in a night that seemed
Of stubborn, barren wood.  For thou hast sown

This seed of beauty in a ground of truth.
 Humbly I dedicate myself, and yet
 I tremble with a sudden fear to set
New music ringing through my fading youth.