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THE POET'S MIND.
87
Which beneath their crisping sapphire
In the midday, floating o'er
The golden sands, make evermore
To a blossomstarréd shore.
Hence away, unhallowed laugher!
In the midday, floating o'er
The golden sands, make evermore
To a blossomstarréd shore.
Hence away, unhallowed laugher!
II.
Darkbrowed sophist, come not anear;
The poet's mind is holy ground;
Hollow smile and frozen sneer
Come not here.
Holy water will I pour
Into every spicy flower
Of the laurelshrubs that hedge it around.
The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer.
In your eye there is death,
There is frost in your breath
Which would blight the plants.
Where you stand you cannot hear
From the groves within
The wildbird's din.
Darkbrowed sophist, come not anear;
The poet's mind is holy ground;
Hollow smile and frozen sneer
Come not here.
Holy water will I pour
Into every spicy flower
Of the laurelshrubs that hedge it around.
The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer.
In your eye there is death,
There is frost in your breath
Which would blight the plants.
Where you stand you cannot hear
From the groves within
The wildbird's din.
