William Bell Scott (1811-1890)
How many a throb of the young poet-heart,
Aspiring to the ideal bliss of fame,
Deems that time soon may sanctify his claim
Among the sons of song to dwell apart.--
Time passes--passes! The aspiring flame
Of hope shrinks down; the white flower poesy
Breaks on its stalk, and from its earth-turned eye
Drop sleepy tears instead of that sweet dew
Rich with inspiring odors, insect wings
Drew from its leaves with every changing sky,
While its young innocent petals unsunned grew.
No more in pride to other ears he sings,
But with a dying charm himself unto:--
For a sad season: then, to active life he springs.