Spenser! a jealous honourer of thine, br A forester deep in thy midmost trees, br Did last eve ask my promise to refine br Some English that might strive thine ear to please. br But Elfin Poet 'tis impossible br For an inhabitant of wintry earth br To rise like Phoebus with a golden quill br Fire-wing'd and make a morning in his mirth. br It is impossible to escape from toil br O' the sudden and receive thy spiriting: br The flower must drink the nature of the soil br Before it can put forth its blossoming: br Be with me in the summer days, and I br Will for thine honour and his pleasure try.