Classic Poem

O steep a poet in the sun,
And bathe a singer in the blue;
And bring, to solace such an one,
Fresh, honied draughts of clover dew!
Then let a song for soothing float
From out the hermit-thrush's throat.
Upon a mountainside, apart,
Where blows no breath of earthly care,
There let him cheer his gentle heart,
And drink the joyous mountain air.
Perchance, before the day be past,
The winged horse may come at last,
And lightly curvet o'er the hill,
Then stand to learn the master's will.
Or if he wait till comes the night,
Until the Lady Moon arise,
And sleepy starlets blink their eyes,
And whippoorwills begin to call,
There 'll be such rambles through the skies,
Such antics on his upward flight,
Such caracoles fantastical,
Such circlings wild, and swift, and strong,
As ne'er were set in mortal song!

O Pegasus! if I might be
Upon the mountain-slope with thee;
And might I share thy sweeping flight,
And gambols in the mystic light;
Or through the airy pastures wind,
With speed that leaves the breeze behind,
To join the starry company, —
'T were happiness enough for me.