So often the words of a poet seem both mysterious and magical to me. This poem seemed to captured my thoughts about the elusiveness of painting pictures with our words.

The Poet’s Secret 
The poet’s secret I must know, 
  If that will calm my restless mind. 
I hail the seasons as they go, 
  I woo the sunshine, brave the wind. 
I scan the lily and the rose,         
  I nod to every nodding tree, 
I follow every stream that flows, 
  And wait beside the steadfast sea. 
I question melancholy eyes, 
  I touch the lips of women fair:        
Their lips and eyes may make me wise, 
  But what I seek for is not there. 
In vain I watch the day and night, 
  In vain the world through space may roll; 
I never see the mystic light          
  Which fills the poet’s happy soul. 
Through life I hear the rhythmic flow 
  Whose meaning into song must turn; 
Revealing all he longs to know, 
  The secret each alone must learn.         
by Elizabeth Stoddard 

The round-up this week is over at