IN our hearts is the Great One of Avon Engraven, And we climb the cold summits once built on By Milton. But at times not the air that is rarest Is fairest, And we long in the valley to follow Apollo. Then we drop from the heights atmospheric To Herrick, Or we pour the Greek honey, grown blander, Of Landor; Or our cosiest nook in the shade is Where Praed is, Or we toss the light bells of the mocker With Locker. Oh, the song where not one of the Graces Tight-laces, -- Where we woo the sweet Muses not starchly, But archly, -- Where the verse, like a piper a-Maying, Comes playing, And the rhyme is as gay as a dancer, In answer, -- It will last till men weary of pleasure In measure! It will last till men weary of laughter And after! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SONG [OF DIVINE LOVE] by RICHARD CRASHAW TWO AT A FIRESIDE by EDWIN MARKHAM A WOMAN'S QUESTION by ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER A YOUTH TO HIS FATHER by WALTER R. ADAMS THE WHEELING WORLD by JAMES ROBERT ALLEN |