To Chaucer

Chaucer, O how I wish thou wert
Alive and, as of yore, alert !
Then, after bandied tales, what fun
Would we two have with monk and nun.
Ah, surely verse was never meant
To render mortals somnolent.
In Spenser's labyrinthine rhymes
I throw my arms o'erhead at times,
Opening sonorous mouth as wide
As oystershells at ebb of tide.
Mistake me not : I honour him
Whose magic made the Muses dream
Of things they never knew before.
And scenes they never wandered o'er.
I dare not follow, nor again
Be wafted with the wizard train.

No bodyless and soulless elves
I seek, but creatures like ourselves.

If any poet now runs after
The Faeries, they will split with laughter,
Leaving him in the desert, where
Dry grass is emblematic fare.

Thou wast content to act the squire
Becomingly, and mount no higher.

Nay, at fit season to descend
Into the poet with a friend.

Then ride with him about thy land
In lithesome nutbrown boots well-tann'd,
With lordly greyhound, who would dare
Course against law the summer hare,
Nor takes to heart the frequent crack
Of whip, with curse that calls him back.

The lesser Angels now have smiled
To see thee frolic like a child.
And hear thee, innocent as they.
Provoke them to come down and play.