In our hearts is the Great One of Avon
Engraven,
And we climb the cold summits once built on
By Milton.
But at times not the air that is rarest
Is fairest,
And we long in the valley to follow
Apollo.
Then we drop from the heights atmospheric
To Herrick,
Or we pour the Greek honey, grown blander,
Of Landor;
Or our cosiest nook in the shade is
Where Praed is,
Or we toss the light bells of the mocker
With Locker.
Oh, the song where not one of the Graces
Tight-laces,—
Where we woo the sweet Muses not starchly,
But archly,—
Where the verse, like a piper a-Maying,
Comes playing,—
And the rhyme is as gay as a dancer
In answer,—
It will last till men weary of pleasure
In measure!
It will last till men weary of laughter ...
And after!