The copse-wood merely sows br Itself, not planted; br And so it is with those br Strange and enchanted br Moods that have taken root, br Bloomed, and e'en borne fruit, br Or e'er the poet knew't, br Beauty-haunted. br The little songs that fly, br When the lips parted br Let dreams of ear and eye br Forth, so warm-hearted: br Be it a joy or pain, br Each to chaunt is fain br What in the parent brain br Soothed or smarted. br This is the poet's dower, br None, none completer; br As if 'twere Love's own flower, br Than all flowers sweeter, br Which, as the seer saith, br Still breathes a faery breath br Where Beauty smiles, though Death br May come to meet her.