So Let Me Be Thy

Even Bees, The Little Almsmen Of Spring Bowers, Know There Is Richest Juice In Poison-flowers.

It Keeps Eternal Whisperings Around Desolate Shores

Neither Poetry, Nor Ambition, Nor Love Have Any Alertness Of Countenance As They Pass By Me.

But Let Me See Thee Stoop From Heaven On Wings That Fill The Sky With Silver Glitterings!

Asleep In Lap Of Legends Old.