On his birthday

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.

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