To Young E. Allison - Bookman

The bookman he's a humming-bird -
    His feasts are honey-fine, -
    (With hi! hilloo!
    And clover-dew
    And roses lush and rare!)
Hiss roses are the phrase and word
    Of olden tomes divine;
    (With hi! and ho!
    And pinks ablow
    And posies everywhere!)
The Bookman he's a humming-bird, -
    He steals from song to song -
He scents the ripest-blooming rhyme,
    And takes his heart along
And sacks all sweets of bursting verse
    And ballads, throng on throng.
    (With ho! and hey!
    And brook and brae,
    And brinks of shade and shine!)

A humming-bird the Bookman is -
    Though cumbrous, gray and grim, -
    (With hi! hilloo!
    And honey-dew
    And odors musty-rare!)
He bends him o'er that page of his
    As o'er the rose's rim.
    (With hi! and ho!
    And pinks aglow
    And roses everywhere!)
Ay, he's the featest humming-bird,
    On airiest of wings
He poises pendent o'er the poem
    That blossoms as it sings -
God friend him as he dips his beak
    In such delicious things!
    (With ho! and hey!
    And world away
    And only dreams for him!)




O friends of mine, whose kindly words come to me
    Voiced only in lost lisps of ink and pen,
If I had power to tell the good you do me,
And how the blood you warm goes laughing through me,
    My tongue would babble baby-talk again.

And I would toddle round the world to meet you -
    Fall at your feet, and clamber to your knees
And with glad, happy hands would reach and greet you,
And twine my arms about you, and entreat you
    For leave to weave a thousand rhymes like these -

A thousand rhymes enwrought of nought but presses
    Of cherry-lip and apple-cheek and chin,
And pats of honeyed palms, and rare caresses,
And all the sweets of which as Fancy guesses
    She folds away her wings and swoons therein.