The dead poets echo throughout his lips

In sounding phrase, and while he sits

And ponders o'er his lines, and tries to fit

Ideas to words and words to verse,

A spirit hovers over him, to brush

His dreaming eyed with passing tip of wing,

Caress his fine young fine mouth, and jointly bring

Poetic passion and a deep despair.

The Muse of Poetry lightly touches him

And is away and leaves him in despond,

Seeking and yearning for the realm beyond,

The half-glimpsed kingdom of the master poets.

But to those youths by whom she lingers long,

There comes a power and a gift of song.