The ferny places gleam at morn, <br />The dew drips off the leaves of corn; <br />Along the brook a mist of white <br />Fades as a kiss on lips of light; <br />For, lo! the poet with his pipe <br />Finds all these melodies are ripe! <br /> <br />Far up within the cadenced June <br />Floats, silver-winged, a living tune <br />That winds within the morning's chime <br />And sets the earth and sky to rhyme; <br />For, lo! the poet, absent long, <br />Breathes the first raptures of his song! <br /> <br />Across the clover-blossoms, wet, <br />With dainty clumps of violet, <br />And wild red roses in her hair, <br />There comes a little maiden fair. <br />I cannot more of June rehearse-- <br />She is the ending of my verse. <br /> <br />Ah, nay! For through perpetual days <br />Of summer gold and filmy haze, <br />When Autumn dies in Winter's sleet, <br />I yet will see those dew-washed feet, <br />And o'er the tracts of Life and Time <br />They make the cadence for my rhyme.<br /><br />Eugene Field<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-the-poet-came/
