To a Poet

The pipe of one undying river reedBorne down on myriad summers' magic breathWakes to thy playing, the immortal seedOf Eden's rose, through gates of life and death,Blooms in thy song; to make thy fragile moodThe loves of gods were slain and mortals died;A thousand dawns are thrilling in thy blood,A thousand darks are blackly multipliedIn thy despair; a thousand souls their tears,Their passions pour through time to thine;Thy heart is heritage of all the yearsThat fed upon Elysian oil and wine;—Then with no lesser fare of love keep tryst,Lest the lips starve where gods have warmly kist.