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John Keats - Sonnet To Spenser
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Spenser! a jealous honourer of thine, 
A forester deep in thy midmost trees, 
Did last eve ask my promise to refine 
Some English that might strive thine ear to please. 
But Elfin Poet `tis impossible 
For an inhabitant of wintry earth 
To rise like Phoebus with a golden quill 
Fire-wing`d and make a morning in his mirth. 
It is impossible to escape from toil 
O` the sudden and receive thy spiriting:
The flower must drink the nature of the soil 
Before it can put forth its blossoming: 
Be with me in the summer days, and I 
Will for thine honour and his pleasure try.
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