The Poet and the Flower repay
What each the other yields;
He loiters on his twilight way,
Amid the summer fields,
Delighting in the lovely things
That round his pathway gleam
While over them his spirit flings
A music and a dream.
He of the Avon’s gentle wave
Was conscious of his power;
Was he not happy, when he gave
His fancy to that flower,
And left a vision of delight
Amid its folded leaves?—
A vision delicate and bright,
Which every heart receives.
His lot was what the Poet’s lot
Has ever been on earth;
Yet toil and trouble were forgot
In one enchanted birth.
That little purple flower imparts
A pleasure deep and true;
Then he bequeaths to other hearts
The joy that first he knew.
———————
* Illustrating a fanciful picture of a youthful poet.
