Folk alien to the Muse have hemm'd us round And fiends have suck'd our blood: our best delight Is poison'd, and the year's infective blight Hath made almost a silence of sweet sound. But you, what fortune, Percy, have you found At Harrow? doth fair hope your toil requite? Doth beauty win her praise and truth her right, Or hath the good seed fal'n on stony ground? Ply the art ever nobly, single-soul'd Like Brahms, or as you ruled in Wells erewhile, -- Nor yet the memory of that zeal is cold -- Where lately I, who love the purer style, Enter'd and felt your spirit as of old Beside me, listening in the chancel-aisle. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO THE EVENING STAR by WILLIAM BLAKE A CHANNEL PASSAGE by RUPERT BROOKE A ROUGH RHYME ON A ROUGH MATTER; THE ENGLISH GAME LAWS by CHARLES KINGSLEY GOOD-NIGHT by PHILIP EDWARD THOMAS TO HIS WORSHIPFULL GOOD FRIEND, MAISTER JOHN STEVENTON by RICHARD BARNFIELD CHILDREN OF LIGHT by BERNARD BARTON |