Sonnets 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.