Poems (Cary)/The Poet

For works with similar titles, see Poet.
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THE POET.
Upon a bed of flowery moss,With moonbeams falling all acrossMoonbeams chilly and faint and dim,(Sweet eyes I ween do watch for him)Lieth his starry dreams among,The gentlest poet ever sung.
The wood is thick—'t is late in night,Yet feareth he no evil sprite,Nor vexing ghost—such things there beIn many a poet's destiny.Haply some wretched fast or prayer,Painéd and long, hath charmed the air.
Softer than hymenial hymnsThe fountains, bubbling o'er their rims,Wash through the vernal reeds, and fillThe hollows: all beside is still,Save the poet's breathing, low and light.Watch no more, lady—no more to-night!—Heavy his gold locks are with dew,Yet by the pansies mixed with rue ​Bitter and rough, but now that fellFrom his shut hand, he sleepeth well.He sleepeth well, and his dream is brightUnder the moonbeams chilly and white.
The night is dreary, the boy is fair—Hath he been mated with Despair,Or crossed in love, that he lies aloneWith shadows and moonlight overblown—Shadows and moonlight chilly and dim?And do no sweet eyes watch for him?
Nay, rather is his soul insteadWith immortal thirst disquieted,That oft like an echo wild and faintHe makes to the hills and the groves his plaint?That oft the light on his forehead gleams,So troubled under its crown of dreams?
Watch no more, lady, no more, I pray,He is wrapt in a lonely power away!Sweet boy, so sleeping, might it beThat any prayer I said for theeCould answer win from the spirit shore,This were it, "Let him wake no more!"
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