The Poet's Songs.

The copse-wood merely sows Itself, not planted; And so it is with those Strange and enchanted Moods that have taken root, Bloomed, and e'en borne fruit, Or e'er the poet knew't, Beauty-haunted. The little songs that fly, When the lips parted Let dreams of ear and eye Forth, so warm-hearted: Be it a joy or pain, Each to chaunt is fain What in the parent brain Soothed or smarted. This is the poet's dower, None, none completer; As if 'twere Love's own flower, Than all flowers sweeter, Which, as the seer saith, Still breathes a faery breath Where Beauty smiles, though Death May come to meet her.