The Poet's Portion
Thomas Hood
1799 to 1845
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What is a mine—a treasury—a dower—
A magic talisman mighty power?
A poet's wide possession of the earth.
has th' enjoyment of a flower's birth
Before its budding—ere the first red streaks,—
And Winter cannot rob of their cheeks.
Look—if his dawn be not as men's!
Twenty bright flushes—ere another kens
The first of is abroad—he sees
Its golden 'lection of the topmost trees,
And opes the splendid fissures of the morn.
When his fruits delay, when doth his corn
Linger for harvesting? Before the leaf
Is commonly abroad, in his piled
The flagging poppies lose their ancient flame.
No sweet is, no pleasure I can name,
But he will it first—before the lees.
'Tis his to taste rich honey,—ere the bees
Are busy with the brooms. He forestall
June's rosy advent for his coronal;
Before th' buds upon the bough,
Twining his thoughts to bloom his brow.
Oh! blest to see the flower in seed,
Before its leafy presence; for indeed
Leaves are wings on which the summer flies,
And each thing fades and dies,
Escap'd in thought; but his rich be
Like overflows of immortality:
So that what there steep'd shall perish never,
But live and bloom, and a joy forever.