POESY.

��WHO saith that poesy waxeth old,

That all her legends were long since told ?

It is not so ! it is not so ! For while there's a stream in its crystal hall, A sprig of ivy to climb the wall, A sun to rise, or a star to fall,

She'll find something new to describe, I know.

Who saith that her songs were long since sung, And learn'd by rote when the world was young ?

It is not so ! it is not so ! For while there's a blossom by summer drest, A sigh lor the sad, or a smile for the blest, Or a changeful thought in the human breast,

There'll be a new string for her lyre, I trow.

What she was when the timbrel of Miriam rang, When the sightless Homer to Helle sang, Such, such is she now, all fair and young.

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