What is a mine—a treasury—a dower— <br />A magic talisman of mighty power? <br />A poet's wide possession of the earth. <br />He has th' enjoyment of a flower's birth <br />Before its budding—ere the first red streaks,— <br />And Winter cannot rob him of their cheeks. <br />Look—if his dawn be not as other men's! <br />Twenty bright flushes—ere another kens <br />The first of sunlight is abroad—he sees <br />Its golden 'lection of the topmost trees, <br />And opes the splendid fissures of the morn. <br />When do his fruits delay, when doth his corn <br />Linger for harvesting? Before the leaf <br />Is commonly abroad, in his piled sheaf <br />The flagging poppies lose their ancient flame. <br />No sweet there is, no pleasure I can name, <br />But he will sip it first—before the lees. <br />'Tis his to taste rich honey,—ere the bees <br />Are busy with the brooms. He may forestall <br />June's rosy advent for his coronal; <br />Before th' expectant buds upon the bough, <br />Twining his thoughts to bloom upon his brow. <br />Oh! blest to see the flower in its seed, <br />Before its leafy presence; for indeed <br />Leaves are but wings on which the summer flies, <br />And each thing perishable fades and dies, <br />Escap'd in thought; but his rich thinkings be <br />Like overflows of immortality: <br />So that what there is steep'd shall perish never, <br />But live and bloom, and be a joy forever.<br /><br />Thomas Hood<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-poet-s-portion/
