Singer of songs most simple & most sweet,
With artlessness that only Art commands,
Thy notes are hushed, thy lute has slipped thy hands,
And lies, still echoing with thy heart’s last beat,
Full tuned and fit for service, at thy feet.
But whoso would enlist its strands
Must have the touch its melody demands,
And eyes of love that lowliest things will greet.
A willing prisoner in thy dainty sphere
In thee the dumb creation found a voice;
No wings that flashed but did thy song rejoice,
No hedge-row cry but found a listening ear.
Child-hearted thou, by nature as by choice—
True Christian Poet, blameless Sonneteer!
(Sonnets at the English Lakes, 1881, p. 1)