To Oscar Wilde
ON RECEIVING FROM HIM A BOOK OF HIS POEMS .
Your volume like a Provence lute antique
Wed with a classic lyre were fitlier wrought,
So richly opposite its theme and thought,
Its art so Gothic and its aim so Greek.
Till now we had deemed that one alone might seek
From poetry what you with victory sought, —
To blend those pure strains the Sicilian taught
With Spenser's line, luxurious and unique.
Nay, since your reverenced master dwells afar,
It has been given your spirit, I am sure,
To pass, deep-tranced by slumber's opiate sweets,
High up some white stair sheer to some white star,
And meet in its immortal vestiture
The splendor that men mean when they name Keats!
Your volume like a Provence lute antique
Wed with a classic lyre were fitlier wrought,
So richly opposite its theme and thought,
Its art so Gothic and its aim so Greek.
Till now we had deemed that one alone might seek
From poetry what you with victory sought, —
To blend those pure strains the Sicilian taught
With Spenser's line, luxurious and unique.
Nay, since your reverenced master dwells afar,
It has been given your spirit, I am sure,
To pass, deep-tranced by slumber's opiate sweets,
High up some white stair sheer to some white star,
And meet in its immortal vestiture
The splendor that men mean when they name Keats!
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