Poet, you that build the rhyme
Dear to the Muse, the lovable maiden,
Breathe again the beauty-laden
Breath of wisdom's earlier time!

Now the people fancy more
Popular art, sensational poses,
Not the rarer-chosen roses,
Not the laurel Tennyson wore;

But to you my wreaths belong,
Wrought of Apollo's hyacinth-treasure,
You that tread to every measure
Dainty steps of delicate song.