To Alfred Tennyson br br Poet! I come to touch thy lance with mine; br Not as a knight, who on the listed field br Of tourney touched his adversary's shield br In token of defiance, but in sign br Of homage to the mastery, which is thine, br In English song; nor will I keep concealed, br And voiceless as a rivulet frost-congealed, br My admiration for thy verse divine. br Not of the howling dervishes of song, br Who craze the brain with their delirious dance, br Art thou, O sweet historian of the heart! br Therefore to thee the laurel-leaves belong, br To thee our love and our allegiance, br For thy allegiance to the poet's art.