Classic Poem

Happy? Was not the poet's hydromel
By many a drop of bitterness profaned?
Doth no autumnal disenchantment dwell
In that calm wisdom by his eld attained?

Ah, but this laureate of England's prime,
This golden-throat, drank joy from deeper springs
Than penury's pursuing wolves could grime
Or winter frost beneath enshadowing wings.

For when, his sprite with " glad devocioun " fraught,
He knelt, May morn, on tender English sod
To see the daisy spread, his pulses caught
The rapturous rhythm of the Heart of God;

And strangely would we wrong the Heart Divine,
Wherefrom pure mirth derives her sweet employ,
To canonize but by the sorrow-sign
And miss the primal sanctity of joy.

" Most sacred happie Spirit, " enter in,
With all thy train, amid the sainted souls.
Till bird and blossom and the sunbeam sin,
What angel shall contest your aureoles?