POESY TO THE POET.
Of art's sweet sorrow for her own dear sake;
A strong resolve a quenchless thirst to slake
At that Castalian fount - far, far above
The grosser earth - where the shy muses rove,
A deathless flame within, whose lightnings make
Earth, sea, and sky a magic glamour take,
This must he have who roams my sacred grove.
But when by art's steep path he enters there
Sorrow shall vanish, and the clouded sky
Open its windows, with a golden flood
Of heavenly light, while I, divinely fair,
Smiling upon him with strange witchery,
Shall with immortal kisses fire his blood.
C. T. D.