At the poet's life-core lying
Is a sheltered and sacred nest,
Where, as yet, unfledged for flying,
His callow fancies rest:

Fancies, and Thoughts, and Feelings,
Which the mother Psyche breeds,
And Passions whose dim revealings
But torture their hungry needs.

Yet, — there cometh a summer splendor
When the golden brood wax strong,
And, with voices grand or tender,
They rise to the heaven of song.