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A VISION OF POETS.
"As sweet, in short, as perfumed shroud,
Which the fair Roman maidens sewed
For English Keats, singing aloud."

The lady answered, "Yea, as sweet!
The things thou namest being complete
In fragrance, as I measure it.

"Since sweet the death-clothes and the knell
Of him who, having lived, dies well,—
And holy sweet the asphodel,

"Stirred softly by that foot of his,
When he treads brave on all that is,
Into the world of souls, from this!

"Since sweet the tears, dropped at the door
Of tearless Death,—and even before:
Sweet, consecrated evermore!

"What! dost thou judge it a strange thing,
That poets, crowned for conquering,
Should bear some dust from out the ring?

"Come on with me, come on with me;
And learn in coming! Let me free
Thy spirit into verity."

She ceased: her palfrey's paces sent
No separate noises as she went,—
'Twas a bee's hum—a little spent.

And while the poet seemed to tread
Along the drowsy noise so made,
The forest heaved up overhead

Its billowy foliage through the air,
And the calm stars did, far and fair,
O'er-swim the masses everywhere:

Save where the overtopping pines
Did bar their tremulous light with lines
All fixed and black. Now the moon shines