POESY TO THE POET.

A JOY in patience, a deep, steadfast love

Of art's sweet sorrow for her own dear sake;

A strong resolve a quenchless thirst to slake

At that Castalian fount - far, far above

The grosser earth - where the shy muses rove,

A deathless flame within, whose lightnings make

Earth, sea, and sky a magic glamour take,

This must he have who roams my sacred grove.

But when by art's steep path he enters there

Sorrow shall vanish, and the clouded sky

Open its windows, with a golden flood

Of heavenly light, while I, divinely fair,

Smiling upon him with strange witchery,

Shall with immortal kisses fire his blood.

C. T. D.