The Poet's Lay

HE that has sipped from the honey-cell,
O listen him, and wish him well !
His are the thoughts that live with roses,
With cloud-shapes where the sun-gate closes ;
The glintings through green summer leaves
Are in the measures that he weaves;
There all the secrets murmured, purled
By brooks, or in the rosebud curled,
Or in the winds o’ the nesting-tree,
Not sleep can keep from melody.
Light fancy has he, frail and fair,
Like the orchid, rooted in the air;
And yet so searching is his art,
Gray Earth grows happy at her heart,
And wonders he, the while he sings,
At strangest bright, eternal things.
The accent is not all his own,
Betimes the god sings on alone.
John Vance Cheney.