Go, Verse, nor let the grass of tarrying grow <br />Beneath thy feet iambic. Southward go <br />O'er Thamesis his stream, nor halt until <br />Thou reach the summit of a suburb hill <br />To lettered fame not unfamiliar: there <br />Crave rest and shelter of a scholiast fair, <br />Who dwelleth in a world of old romance, <br />Magic emprise and faery chevisaunce. <br />Tell her, that he who made thee, years ago, <br />By northern stream and mountain, and where blow <br />Great breaths from the sea-sunset, at this day <br />One half thy fabric fain would rase away; <br />But she must take thee faults and all, my Verse, <br />Forgive thy better and forget thy worse. <br />Thee, doubtless, she shall place, not scorned, among <br />More famous songs by happier minstrels sung;-- <br />In Shakespeare's shadow thou shalt find a home, <br />Shalt house with melodists of Greece and Rome, <br />Or awed by Dante's wintry presence be, <br />Or won by Goethe's regal suavity, <br />Or with those masters hardly less adored <br />Repose, of Rydal and of Farringford; <br />And--like a mortal rapt from men's abodes <br />Into some skyey fastness of the gods-- <br />Divinely neighboured, thou in such a shrine <br />Mayst for a moment dream thyself divine.<br /><br />William Watson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lines-with-a-volume-of-the-author-s-poems-sent-to-m-r-c/
