THE POET I RIGHT upward on the road of fame Nor Time's snows hide the names he set, Yet every 310 But when the noisy scorn was past, A Brother of the world, his song Sounded like a tempest strong Which tore from oaks their branches broad, Times wore he as his clothing-weeds, He sowed the sun and moon for seeds.1 As clouds give rain to the eastern breeze, In its fulness he should taste Life's honeycomb, but not too fast; Full fed, but not intoxicated; He should be loved; he should be hated; A blooming child to children dear, His heart should palpitate with fear. |