Spenser, a jealous honorer of thine

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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 Phoebus 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 thy pleasure try.

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