The Passionate Reader To His Poet

Doth it not thrill thee, Poet, Dead and dust though thou art, To feel how I press thy singing Close to my heart?- Take it at night to my pillow, Kiss it before I sleep, And again when the delicate morning Beginneth to peep? See how I bathe thy pages Here in the light of the sun, Through thy leaves, as a wind among roses, The breezes shall run. Feel how I take thy poem And bury within it my face, As I pressed it last night in the heart of a flower, Or deep in a dearer place. Think, as I love thee, Poet, A thousand love beside, Dear women love to press thee too Against a sweeter side. Art thou not happy, Poet? I sometimes dream that I For such a fragrant fame as thine Would gladly sing and die. Say, wilt thou change thy glory For this same youth of mine? And I will give my days i' the sun For that great song of thine.