TO A POET
Reading edition
(TO EDMUND GOSSE)
Still towards the steep Parnassian way The moon-led pilgrims wend, Ah, who of all that start to-day Shall ever reach the end?
Year after year a dream-fed band That scorn the vales below, And scorn the fatness of the land To win those heights of snow,—
Leave barns and kine and flocks behind, And count their fortune fair, If they a dozen leaves may bind Of laurel in their hair.
Like us, dear Poet, once you trod That sweet moon-smitten way, With mouth of silver sought the god All night and all the day;
Sought singing, till in rosy fire The white Apollo came, And touched your brow, and wreathed your lyre, And named you by his name;
And led you, loving, by the hand To those grave laurelled bowers, Where keep your high immortal band Your high immortal hours.
Strait was the way, thorn-set and long— Ah, tell us, shining there, Is fame as wonderful as song? And laurels in your hair!