To a Singer

Beneath thy Midas touch life's sullen grays

Are thrilled to sudden gold; as some far gleam

From wings of Helios athwart thy dream

Irradiates for thee earth's darksome ways.

Wild woodland voices ripple thro’ thy lays;

Sweet silvern murmurs from some deep-delled spring,

Brook, tree and flower and each insensate thing,

The throstle's call, the calm of sun-steeped days,

A glint of sunshine on the swallow's wing,

Fern-filagrees, the drowsy drone of bee

Made drunk with draughts of purple wild-grape wine;

All these Orphèan music holds for thee,

And all thy days and dreams companioning

Walks Nature with her hand close-clasped in thine.