To A Dead Poet

I speak your name-a magic thing-
Jocund April takes my hand,
Golden birds begin to sing,
Laughter fills the silver land.

I speak your name-a Matin bell-
Buoyant, godlike, you arise-
Flinging far the slumber-spell
Laid upon your heart and eyes.

I speak your name-and Summer's here-
Glad beyond all Summers gone-
And you are shining like the spear
God fashioned in His first day's dawn.