Sonnet Lxxxiv.

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.