The Passionate Reader To His Poet

Doth it not thrill thee, Poet,     Dead and dust though thou art,     To feel how I press thy singing     Close to my heart? -     Take it at night to my pillow,     Kiss it before I sleep,     And again when the delicate morning     Beginneth to peep?     See how I bathe thy pages     Here in the light of the sun,     Through thy leaves, as a wind among roses,     The breezes shall run.     Feel how I take thy poem     And bury within it my face,     As I pressed it last night in the heart of     a flower,     Or deep in a dearer place.     Think, as I love thee, Poet,     A thousand love beside,     Dear women love to press thee too     Against a sweeter side.     Art thou not happy, Poet?     I sometimes dream that I     For such a fragrant fame as thine     Would gladly sing and die.     Say, wilt thou change thy glory     For this same youth of mine?     And I will give my days i' the sun     For that great song of thine.