Spenser! a jealous honourer of thine, <br />A forester deep in thy midmost trees, <br />Did last eve ask my promise to refine <br />Some English that might strive thine ear to please. <br />But Elfin Poet 'tis impossible <br />For an inhabitant of wintry earth <br />To rise like Phoebus with a golden quill <br />Fire-wing'd and make a morning in his mirth. <br />It is impossible to escape from toil <br />O' the sudden and receive thy spiriting: <br />The flower must drink the nature of the soil <br />Before it can put forth its blossoming: <br />Be with me in the summer days, and I <br />Will for thine honour and his pleasure try.<br /><br />John Keats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-to-spenser/
