To a Young Lady who sent me a Laurel Crown

Fresh morning gusts have blown away all fear

      From my glad bosom,—now from gloominess

      I mount for ever—not an atom less

Than the proud laurel shall content my bier.

No! by the eternal stars! or why sit here

      In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press

      Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless

By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear.

Lo! who dares say, 'Do this?' Who dares call down

      My will from its high purpose? Who say, 'Stand,'

Or 'Go?' This mighty moment I would frown

      On abject Cæsars—not the stoutest band

Of mailèd heroes should tear off my crown:

      Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand!