To A Poet - (To Edmund Gosse)

Still towards the steep Parnassian way     The moon-led pilgrims wend,     Ah, who of all that start to-day     Shall ever reach the end?     Year after year a dream-fed band     That scorn the vales below,     And scorn the fatness of the land     To win those heights of snow, -     Leave barns and kine and flocks behind,     And count their fortune fair,     If they a dozen leaves may bind     Of laurel in their hair.     Like us, dear Poet, once you trod     That sweet moon-smitten way,     With mouth of silver sought the god     All night and all the day;     Sought singing, till in rosy fire     The white Apollo came,     And touched your brow, and wreathed your lyre,     And named you by his name;     And led you, loving, by the hand     To those grave laurelled bowers,     Where keep your high immortal band     Your high immortal hours.     Strait was the way, thorn-set and long -     Ah, tell us, shining there,     Is fame as wonderful as song?     And laurels in your hair!