"TOUCH him ne'er so lightly, into song he broke: Soil so quick-receptive, -- not one feather-seed, Not one flower-dust fell but straight its fall awoke Vitalizing virtue: song would song succeed Sudden as spontaneous -- prove a poet-soul!" Indeed? Rock's the song-soil rather, surface hard and bare: Sun and dew their mildness, storm and frost their rage Vainly both expend, -- few flowers awaken there: Quiet in its cleft broods -- what the after-age Knows and names a pine, a nation's heritage. Thus I wrote in London, musing on my betters, Poets dead and gone; and lo, the critics cried, "Out on such a boast!" as if I dreamed that fetters Binding Dante bind up -- me! as if true pride Were not also humble! So I smiled and sighed As I oped your book in Venice this bright morning, Sweet new friend of mine! and felt the clay or sand, Whatsoe'er my soil be, break -- for praise or scorning -- Out in grateful fancies -- weeds; but weeds expand Almost into flowers, held by such a kindly hand. |