ADDRESSED TO WILLIAM MORRIS, AFTER READING HIS " L'ENVOY, " IN THE THIRD VOLUME OF HIS " EARTHLY PARADISE. "

I N some fair realm unbound of time or space,
Where souls of all dead May-times, with their play
Of blissful winds, soft showers, and bird-notes gay,
Make mystic music in the flower-bright place, —
Yea, there, O poets! radiant face to face,
Keen heart to heart, beneath the enchanted day,
Ye met, each hearkening to the other's lay,
With rapt, sweet eyes, and thoughts of Old-World grace:
" Son, " saith the elder bard, " when thou wert born,
So yearned toward thine my spirit's fervency,
Flamelike its warmth on thy deep soul was shed;
Hence the ripe blood of England's lustier morn
Of song burns through thee; hence alone on thee
Fall the rich bays which bloomed round Chaucer's head! "