Spenser, a jealous honorer 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 Phœbus, with a golden quell,
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 honor and his pleasure try.