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Eugene Field - When The Poet Came
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The ferny places gleam at morn,
  The dew drips off the leaves of corn;
  Along the brook a mist of white
  Fades as a kiss on lips of light;
  For, lo! the poet with his pipe
  Finds all these melodies are ripe!

  Far up within the cadenced June
  Floats, silver-winged, a living tune
  That winds within the morning`s chime
  And sets the earth and sky to rhyme;
  For, lo! the poet, absent long,
  Breathes the first raptures of his song!

  Across the clover-blossoms, wet,
  With dainty clumps of violet,
  And wild red roses in her hair,
  There comes a little maiden fair.
  I cannot more of June rehearse--
  She is the ending of my verse.

  Ah, nay! For through perpetual days
  Of summer gold and filmy haze,
  When Autumn dies in Winter`s sleet,
  I yet will see those dew-washed feet,
  And o`er the tracts of Life and Time
  They make the cadence for my rhyme.
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