O Poet! my Poet! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Poet! dear teacher!
Your words live in my head!
It is some dream that on this earth,
You’ve long been cold and dead.