Classic Poem

The Spring being aTher blessed carpentry
This morn will shape a stem, this noon a leaf,
Then jewel her sparse greenery with a bud.
Haply the hour of action comes. But one
(A too disdainful spirit, or too meek)
Inhabits yet, like any lonely mole,
The crypt of darkness: evermore his trade
Is underground, a wasteful industry,
And he a laggard of the nether world,
Stretching some secret tendril, and all year
Webbing the silver nothings to and fro.
What wonder if the Gardener think him dead,
When every punctual neighbour-root now goes
Adventurously skyward for a flower?
Up, poet! climb thine inch; thyself fulfil;
Thou only hast no sign, no pageantry
To honour April. Soon from thy small plot
The seasonable sunshine steals away.