As sometimes through a stand of leafless trees
Shines the full brilliance of a forward spring,
There is yet nothing in him that foresees
The blossoming of glory that will sing
All poetry to come with powers to lay
Us almost dead–no shadows cloud his eyes,
His temples are too cool for wreaths of bay,
And only later from his brow will rise
Gardens of roses, dancing on their stems
From which the petals, singly falling on
The earth, will hear first whispers of his hymns–