DOTH it not thrill thee, Poet, Dead and dust though thou art, To feel how I press thy singing Close to my heart? Take it at night to my pillow, Kiss it before I sleep, And again when the delicate morning Beginneth to peep? See how I bathe thy pages Here in the light of the sun, Through thy leaves, as a wind among roses, The breezes shall run. Feel how I take thy poem And bury within it my face As I pressed it last night in the heart of a flower, Or deep in a dearer place. Think, as I love thee, Poet, A thousand love beside, Dear women love to press thee too Against a sweeter side. Art thou not happy, Poet? I sometimes dream that I For such a fragrant fame as thine Would gladly sing and die. Say, wilt thou change thy glory For this same youth of mine? And I will give my days i' the sun For that great song of thine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DESERT FLOWERS by KEITH CASTELLAINE DOUGLAS LOVERS HOW THEY COME AND PART by ROBERT HERRICK TROY TOWN by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI ON HIS RETURN FROM SPAIN by THOMAS WYATT COMPARES THE TROUBLES WHICH HE HAS UNDERGONE, TO LABOURS OF HERCULES by PHILIP AYRES THE LOST GODS ABIDING by WILLIAM ROSE BENET IN WILTSHIRE; SUGGESTED BY POINTS OF SIMILARITY WITH THE SOMME COUNTRY by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |