Classic Poem

Smell of cowslips, bloom of sloes,
A thimbleful of dew distilled
From morning brew of many a field;
Tansy buttons, acorn shoes;
A ribbon from the rainbow's hem,
Bundles of musk and marjoram.
A quilt of cloudy gossamer,
Bees' suits of brown and yellow fur,
Cushions of moss to seat a fay,
Candied pinks, pomade of May;
A little Joy worked with a string,
Clover kerchiefs, shelly chain
Of comfrey seeds, and glittering skein
Of golden spiders clustering.
A tag of sunshine and a spoon
Of chrisom silved from the moon.

Poet Pedlar, what have you in your pack?

Have you stones for Honour's sling,
Pillow-balm for wakeful woe?
Herb of grace for Duty's throe,
Heal for Love's severest sting,
Necklaces of comforting?
Have you a staff for westering—
A spear to prick Youth's green delays?
Have you a child for Loneliness?
Can you steady towers that stand
Built by Hope in stormy skies—
Fragile towers not wrought by hand,
Soon made stones for sacrifice?
Have you sweet opium for tears,
Pale poison for insensate fears?
For unregarded brows a wreath,
Brave music for the lutes of Death?
An inn for Sorrow's travellers?
Can you bring Faith her pearly see,—
Courage by some deep cup restore?
Have you some strange anodyne
When nothing known can heal or bless?—
Some phial of forgetfulness
For “Lost,” “Too Late,” and “Never More”?

Pedlar, if none of these be in your pack,
Poet, if such as these your basket lack,
From this sad highway straight go back.
For those who laugh need not to buy,
Happy-in-Love want not your wares,
All that you cannot sell is theirs.
Only sad pilgrims with their load,
Long sick of heart and dim of eye,
Loiter upon this lonely road
To turn the pack of Poetry.