To the end of the trail / Richard Hovey [electronic text]

TO SWINBURNE
I

POET! thou art to me a faery king Dwelling in some weird place of witchery, Some garden where unnumbered roses vie In color with the hollyhocks that spring On every side in scarlet wantoning And lilies 'neath the gaudier herbage lie And violets unclose their leaves near by While stately sunflowers guard each opening. And in that garden-realm magnificent I often see thee walking — stopping now To list to hollow murmurs, now to scent Some flower's subtile perfume, wherein pent, A rich, rare pleasance lies that none but thou And thy strange fellow-bard, the wind, can know.