Classic Poem

I know a Poet, a poor worthless wight,
Who hath so little part of land or gold
That he indeed were placed in dolorous plight
If it be true that love is bought and sold.
Although of Goods and chattels he hath none,
And his poor home is but a wayside bed
Yet is he richer far than many a one
In palace hall, or castle turreted!
He hath no Glory, yet his song enjoins
All gentle folk to grant him courtesy;
He hath no gold, save what his fancy coins,
And yet he holds the whole wide world in fee!

For in his mind he hath a wondrous dream —
A dream so beauteous, and, withal, so rare,
That if thou couldst behold it, it would seem
That even thou wouldst deign to call it fair.
'Tis of a land engirt with faery hills,
To enter which one needs must breathe thy name,
Whereat the very birds, in joyous trills,
Acclaim thy glory and thy beauty's fame!
There the warm sunset sifts through sighing trees
To kiss the flowers that brighten all the fields;
And amorous brooks invite the wanton breeze
To taste the sweetness that their bosom yields.

It is a land where every secret way
Enfolds a bower where lost lovers meet
To whisper words their lips have yearned to say
Through all the weary years of love's defeat.
A land of light and joy, of rest and peace,
Where pain dwells not, nor sin can ever bide;
A paradise, where sad hearts find surcease
From sorrow, and the dole of love denied. * * * *
And there, enthroned on the topmost-height,
Where all may-pay thee homage — there thou art,
First lady of the land of pure delight,
Queen regnant of the kingdom of my heart!