A Ditty Of No Tone.

Piped to the Spirit of John Keats.

    I.

    Would that my lips might pour out in thy praise
        A fitting melody - an air sublime, -
    A song sun-washed and draped in dreamy haze -
        The floss and velvet of luxurious rhyme:
    A lay wrought of warm languors, and o'er-brimmed
        With balminess, and fragrance of wild flowers
            Such as the droning bee ne'er wearies of -
    Such thoughts as might be hymned
        To thee from this midsummer land of ours
            Through shower and sunshine blent for very love.


    II.

    Deep silences in woody aisles wherethrough
        Cool paths go loitering, and where the trill
    Of best-remembered birds hath something new
        In cadence for the hearing - lingering still
    Through all the open day that lies beyond;
        Reaches of pasture-lands, vine-wreathen oaks,
            Majestic still in pathos of decay, -
    The road - the wayside pond
        Wherein the dragonfly an instant soaks
            His filmy wing-tips ere he flits away.


    III.

    And I would pluck from out the dank, rich mould,
        Thick-shaded from the sun of noon, the long
    Lithe stalks of barley, topped with ruddy gold,
        And braid them in the meshes of my song;
    And with them I would tangle wheat and rye,
        And wisps of greenest grass the katydid
            Ere crept beneath the blades of, sulkily,
    As harvest-hands went by;
        And weave of all, as wildest fancy bid,
            A crown of mingled song and bloom for thee.