To an American Poet

Take , Poet, take these thanks too long deferred —
You that have made me richer year by year,
Across the vast and desert waters drear
Wafting your marriage-chimes of thought and word,
Your true-born, truthful songs. Not April bird
Utters abroad his wisdom morning-clear
From fuller heart. Still sing with note sincere,
And English pure as English air hath heard.
And so, though all the fops of style misuse
Our great brave language — tricking out with beads
This noble vesture that no frippery needs —
Help still to save, while Time around him strews
Old shards of empire, and much dust of creeds,
The honour and the glory of the muse.
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