Dear Spirit, lo, thy poet, full at heart,
Puts on his singing--garb and flowery gear,
To make sweet music in thy listening ear:
Too long hath he been mindless of his part;
But now before his sight come and depart
The dreams of thought in vision quick and clear;
And new creations of the soul appear,
Clothed in the glory of undying art.
Crush not, beloved, though with touch most pure,
The tender plants arising; stand beside,
And feed each springing leaf with daily showers:
So mayst thou see, in life's declining hours,
The goodly umbrage of the grove mature
Over the weary world spread far and wide.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem