I marked thee, sorrow's votary,
  When in the noon of day
Young vandals stormed, thy sacred tree
  And bore thine all away;
The notes of grief that rent thy breast touched kindred chords in mine,
For memories of other days, though slumbering still confine
  In mine own heart
  The bitter smart
  Of sorrow such as thine.

I hear thee now, sweet votary,
  Beside thy ruined nest,
Lift up thy flood of melody
  Against the crimsoned west,
Forgetful of all else in this, thy one sweet joyous strain.
I thank thee for this ecstasy of my remembered pain;
  Thou liftest up
  My sorrow's cup
  To sweeten it again.

The truest poet is not one
Whose golden fancies fuse and run
To moulded phrases, crusted o'er
With flashing gems of metaphor;
Whose art, responsive to his will,
Make's voluble the thoughts that fill