Classic Poem

TO ERNEST BIRCH

O THOU who through high Music's golden gate
Hast right of entrance to the land divine
Wherein the poets' crowns and sceptres shine,
Thy coming we, Song's warders, celebrate.
Thou art a poet-soul beyond debate: —
Thy music thunders out like Milton's line:
Thou canst describe in music and design;
Thy music sighs forth love, or volleys hate.

Poems are silent till thou layest thine hand
Upon their chords. Lo! then the poems speak,
And utter all their souls in music rare. —
Thou dost interpret poets to their land,
Adding the music-charm they vainly seek, —
Making the fairest poem yet more fair.