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To A Dead Poet
Eleanor Rogers Cox
I speak your name—a magic thing— Jocund April takes my hand, Golden birds begin to sing, Laughter fills the silver land. I speak your name—a Matin bell— Buoyant, godlike, you arise— Flinging far the slumber-spell Laid upon your heart and eyes. I speak your name—and Summer’s here— Glad beyond all Summers gone— And you are shining like the spear God fashioned in His first day’s dawn.
