119. To a Dead Poet

I SPEAK your name—a magic thing—

Jocund April takes my hand,

Golden birds begin to sing,

Laughter fills the silver land.

I speak your name—a Matin bell—

Buoyant, godlike, you arise—

Flinging far the slumber-spell

Laid upon your heart and eyes.

I speak your name—and Summer’s here—

Glad beyond all Summers gone—

And you are shining like the spear

God fashioned in His first day’s dawn.