The Poet's Portion

What is a mine—a treasury—a dower— A magic talisman of mighty power? A poet's wide possession of the earth. He has th' enjoyment of a flower's birth Before its budding—ere the first red streaks,— And Winter cannot rob him of their cheeks. Look—if his dawn be not as other men's! Twenty bright flushes—ere another kens The first of sunlight is abroad—he sees Its golden 'lection of the topmost trees, And opes the splendid fissures of the morn. When do his fruits delay, when doth his corn Linger for harvesting? Before the leaf Is commonly abroad, in his piled sheaf The flagging poppies lose their ancient flame. No sweet there is, no pleasure I can name, But he will sip it first—before the lees. 'Tis his to taste rich honey,—ere the bees Are busy with the brooms. He may forestall June's rosy advent for his coronal; Before th' expectant buds upon the bough, Twining his thoughts to bloom upon his brow. Oh! blest to see the flower in its seed, Before its leafy presence; for indeed Leaves are but wings on which the summer flies, And each thing perishable fades and dies, Escap'd in thought; but his rich thinkings be Like overflows of immortality: So that what there is steep'd shall perish never, But live and bloom, and be a joy forever.