And wonder at the daring of poets later born,
Whose thoughts are unto thy thoughts as noontide is to morn;
And little shouldst them grudge them their greater strength of soul,
Thy partners in the torch-race, though nearer to the goal.
Or in thy cedarn prison thou waitest for the bee:
Ah, leave that simple honey and take thy food from me.
My sun is stooping westward. Entranced dreamer, haste;
There’s fruitage in my garden that I would have thee taste.
Now lift the lid a moment; now, Dorian shepherd, speak;