Stop! Come not anear the poet's fane Without the poet's robe of love; the spot Is sacred, red with sanctities of pain, That blossom flower-wise in a garden plot Fed by the tilth of grief and weeping rain; Poor flowerets dashed with sorrow's purple stain, Out of love's youthful shyness first begot,— Save with compassion's hand touch thou them not. But, if the mellowing grace of sympathy Wells as a kindred fountain in thy heart, Pour out the generous flood,—stand not apart Enstranged; shower down thy golden charity, And, fed by that great largess, thou shalt see These drooping flowerets bloom in majesty. |