The Moss Supplicateth for the Poet

Though I am humble, slight me not,
But love me for the Poet's sake;
Forget me not till he's forgot;
I, care or slight, with him would take.

For oft he pass'd the blossoms by,
And gazed on me with kindly look;
Left flaunting flowers and open sky,
And woo'd me by the shady brook.

And like the brook his voice was low:
So soft, so sad the words he spoke,
That with the stream they seem'd to flow:
They told me that his heart was broke; —

They said, the world he fain would shun,
And seek the still and twilight wood —
His spirit, weary of the sun,
In humblest things found chiefest good; —

That I was of a lowly frame,
And far more constant than the flower,
"Which, vain with many a boastful name,
But flutter'd out its idle hour;

That I was land to old decay,
And wrapt it softly round in green,
On naked root and trunk of gray
Spread out a garniture and screen: —

They said, that he was withering fast,
Without a sheltering friend like me;
That on his manhood fell a blast,
And left him bare, like yonder tree;

That spring would clothe his boughs no more,
Nor ring his boughs with song of bird —
Sounds like the melancholy shore
Alone were through his branches heard.

Methought, as then, he stood to trace
The wither'd stems, there stole a tear-"—
That I could read in his sad face,
Brother, our sorrows make us near.

And then he stretch'd him all along,
And laid his head upon my breast,
Listening the water's peaceful song, —
How glad was I to tend his rest!

Then happier grew his soothed soul.
He turn'd and watch'd the sunlight play
Upon my face, as in it stole,
Whispering, Above is brighter day!

He praised my varied hues — the green,
The silver hoar, the golden, brown;
Said, Lovelier hues were never seen:
Then gently press'd my tender down.

And where I sent up little shoots,
He call'd them trees, in fond conceit:
Like silly lovers in their suits
He talk'd, his care awhile to cheat.

I said, I'd deck me in the dews,
Could I but chase away his care,
And clothe me in a thousand hues,
To bring him joys that I might share.

He answer'd, earth no blessing had
To cure his lone and aching heart —
That I was one, when he was sad,
Oft stole him from his pain, in part.

But e'en from thee, he said, I go,
To meet the world, its care and strife,
No more to watch this quiet flow,
Or spend with thee a gentle life.

And yet the brook is gliding on,
And I, without a care, at rest,
While back to toiling life he's gone,
Where finds his head no faithful breast.

Deal gently with him, world, I pray;
Ye cares, like soften'd shadows come;
His spirit, wellnigh worn away,
Asks with ye but awhile a home.

Oh, may I live, and when he dies
Be at his feet an humble sod;
Oh, may I lay me where he lies,
To die when he awakes in God!