Dear Spirit, lo, thy poet, full at heart, <br />Puts on his singing--garb and flowery gear, <br />To make sweet music in thy listening ear: <br />Too long hath he been mindless of his part; <br />But now before his sight come and depart <br />The dreams of thought in vision quick and clear; <br />And new creations of the soul appear, <br />Clothed in the glory of undying art. <br />Crush not, beloved, though with touch most pure, <br />The tender plants arising; stand beside, <br />And feed each springing leaf with daily showers: <br />So mayst thou see, in life's declining hours, <br />The goodly umbrage of the grove mature <br />Over the weary world spread far and wide.<br /><br />Henry Alford<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-lxxxiv-2/
