To a Poet

And have you passed the druid gates 
Where armed Angels stand 
And found the house where Kathleen waits 
To heal the thorn-pricked hand, 
And wreath with ivy leaves the head 
Long bared to wind and rain, 
Ere hand and head to the Rose that's red 
Be vowed, and hers remain? 

And have you breathed the very air 
Full of the Rose's breath? 
Have you beheld her strange and fair 
Yourself untouched of death? 
How comes it, then, so bold you are 
That you can bide the pain 
Of seeing her grow faint and far, 
And earth your own again? 

Yet lack of yours is gain of ours 
And we are very fain 
To see you here 'mid earthly flowers, 
Tended by mortal men. 
Stay here awhile for kindness' sake, 
And sing the Rose a space 
Until, like you, our bonds we break, 
And see her very face.