An Old-Fashioned Poet

In simpler verse than triolets,
Rondeau, or deft quatrain,
With breath of morning violets
In every dewy strain,
He sang from overflowing heart
His sweet old songs unspoiled by art.

Progressive years have passed since then —
The Muse has changed her ways;
No more through flowery mead and glen
A rustic maid she strays;
Amid the traffic of the town
We catch the flutter of her gown.

But one who knows her virgin grace
Gives back the songs she sung
And brings with glimpses of her face
The days when love was young.
O Muse immortal, singer true,
What harmonies unite the two!