HYMN TO POETRY

Oh! When all rhymes be written,

With words that too be told,

And all thoughts as if some sicken’d

Whispers of the past, like old

Glories inglorious be;

That day there will only

Be a sigh to breathe for me,

Like a tree standing lonely

In winter breeze, dead, yet quicken’d.

As do I, when my grief is spoken.