In England's air the poet-heart was born, And his young fancies 'mid the city's roar Ripened,—and shook bright plumelets evermore. Yet light upon him of the world's first morn Was shed, and woods that heard Diana's horn And Grecian waves that flashed at Jason's oar Knew him. He steeped his soul in old-world lore, And met the modern gods with speechless scorn. England gave little love. She gave him flowers,— Such as her Northern meadows can supply: And just one moment's rest in first love's bowers; And glory of hill and sea and lake and sky: And lonely agonised heart-broken hours; And bitter words,—and grass wherein to die. |