To Spenser

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, 't is impossible

For an inhabitant of wintry earth

      To rise like Phœbus 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.