WHEN THE POET CAME.
Reading edition
The ferny places gleam at morn, The dew drips off the leaves of corn; Along the brook a mist of white Fades as a kiss on lips of light; For, lo! the poet with his pipe Finds all these melodies are ripe!
Far up within the cadenced June Floats, silver-winged, a living tune That winds within the morning's chime And sets the earth and sky to rhyme; For, lo! the poet, absent long, Breathes the first raptures of his song!
Across the clover-blossoms, wet, With dainty clumps of violet, And wild red roses in her hair, There comes a little maiden fair. I cannot more of June rehearse— She is the ending of my verse.
Ah, nay! For through perpetual days Of summer gold and filmy haze, When Autumn dies in Winter's sleet, I yet will see those dew-washed feet, And o'er the tracts of Life and Time They make the cadence for my rhyme.