Death the Poet's Birth

The poet may tread earth sadly, Yet is he dreamland's king, And the fays at his bidding gladly Visions of beauty bring; But his joys will be rarer, finer, Away from this earthly stage, When he, who is now a minor. Comes of age.

Roll on, O! tardy cycle, Whose death is the poet's birth; Blow soon, great trump of Michael, Shatter the crust of earth; Let the slow spheres turn faster; Hasten the heritage Of him, who, as life's true master, Comes of age.