The Poet's Songs.

The copse-wood merely sows
Itself, not planted;
And so it is with those
Strange and enchanted
Moods that have taken root,
Bloomed, and e'en borne fruit,
Or e'er the poet knew't,
Beauty-haunted.
The little songs that fly,
When the lips parted
Let dreams of ear and eye
Forth, so warm-hearted:
Be it a joy or pain,
Each to chaunt is fain
What in the parent brain
Soothed or smarted.
This is the poet's dower,
None, none completer;
As if 'twere Love's own flower,
Than all flowers sweeter,
Which, as the seer saith,
Still breathes a faery breath
Where Beauty smiles, though Death
May come to meet her.