Spenser! a jealous honourer of thine,
A forester deep in thy midmost trees,
Did last eve ask my promise to refine
Some English that might strive thine ear to please.
But, Elfin Poet, ‘tis impossible
For an inhabitant of wintry earth
To rise like Phoebus with a golden quill
Fire-wing’d and make a morning in his mirth.
It is impossible to escape from toil
O’ the sudden and receive thy spiriting;
The flower must drink the nature of the soil
Before it can put forth its blossoming;
Be with me in the summer days, and I
Will for thine honour and his pleasure try.