 | To the end of the trail |  |
TO SWINBURNE
I
Poet! thou art to me a faery kingDwelling in some weird place of witchery,
Some garden where unnumbered roses vie
In color with the hollyhocks that spring
On every side in scarlet wantoning
And lilies 'neath the gaudier herbage lie
And violets unclose their leaves near by
While stately sunflowers guard each opening.
And in that garden-realm magnificent
I often see thee walking—stopping now
To list to hollow murmurs, now to scent
Some flower's subtile perfume, wherein pent,
A rich, rare pleasance lies that none but thou
And thy strange fellow-bard, the wind, can know.
137
II
Oft, too, I see thee on the rocky shore,Worshiping all the infinitely strong
Grand godhead that to ocean doth belong,
Or prostrate with uncovered head before
The sun, whom even Ocean doth adore,
Who giveth speech to every poet's tongue,
Who is the only king and god of song,
From whom all bards receive their secret lore.
For thou art brother of the elements;
There is a spirit of kinship that compels
Thy feet to stray in paths where nothing dwells
Save the triune power that knows nor death nor birth
But sways all nature in omnipotence—
Sea, wind and sun, the gods who rule the earth.
| To the end of the trail | |