I sat there,
until you came like a noonday sun,
and pulled me behind you,
The speaker seems to hold still, to hide in a dark place, rather than venture out into the sun and wind and expose himself to the elements. Remaining inside, looking out, how does he grow, and what does he have to offer she who leaves fingerprints of gold (love that line!), whose laughter, when she comes to visit, pulls him to action? What does he have to bestow on her - depth, richness, wisdom, tranquility? Or does he absorb her light and exude none in return? Just asking... because this speaker reminds me of someone I met in college, at age 21. He was needy. He'd have drained me, if I'd let him. Your poem is beautiful, and memorable, and please don't imagine that I am confusing you with a dark and brooding young man who lurked so many years ago in my life. Your words are moving, and poignant. I just keeping thinking about the bright, laughing lady in the meadow, with her fingerprints of gold.
You know Carol, that's a really good question.
Before I answer it, I want to say something. It could be seen as flippant, or as a deflection, but it isn't. Poetry is literature, and you certainly know that what we take out of literature depends on what we put in. Literature doesn't exist on the page, but in the place where text and reader meet.
As such, I will say that what you read in the text may not be "there", from my perspective. But since this is literature, that is just fine. The piece spoke to you, and it may speak in a different tone than the one I intended.
But it may also be that I put something there, and just didn't consider it.
Now, to the answer.
From the poetic side, it'd be quite a different piece, with very different themes, if it rested on what the writer brings to the table, to her. It wouldn't really be a piece of longing. And it'd quite likely be a longer piece. But regardless, it'd be a different piece. Not better, or worse. But different.
From the prosaic side, who speaks of what they have done for others? Politicians, and people crying over how they are not properly appreciated. This is not how you convince people. You are not the person to say what you can give another, because who's to say they ever asked for what you are giving? That side is left for her to give, to say what the poet is giving her. Any attempt from him to do so is folly.
**Rhetorical question, Guy!
I didn't expect you to answer it. Just, your poem led me to wonder. You're right, the poem is not the poet. The poem stands alone. We bring to the table suitcases packed with our ideas, memories, baggage. So I had to wonder: he yearns for her to return to him, bestowing her sunny smiles.... and what's in it for her? :)