TO AN OLD-FASHIONED POET
(Lizette Woodworth Reese)
Most tender poet, when the gods confer
They save your gracile songs a nook apart,
The ageless April of your singing heart.
The appointed patience that the Muse decrees,
The hovering words alight, like bridegroom bees.
The placid gods grant gifts where they belong:
The recompensed necessities of song.