 | Through the Gateway |  |
26
THE POET'S POET.
The Poet's poet one hath called thee, Keats;The light tongue knowing not what praise it gave;
For such are not these rhymers of the streets,
But Nature's self, a Sappho sweet and grave.
He hears a rolling Epic in the wave;
The wind a fitful Elegy repeats;
The rainbow hath a Sonnet's numbered sweets;
And bright Anthologies the woodland pave.
Thy book is one with Nature's. Here are embers
On moss-grown altars flowering into flame;
Huge sorrows, like the snows of all Decembers
Heaped upon mountains; and the hushed acclaim
Of firwoods filled with what the wind remembers
Of wide tumultuous waters whence it came.
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