Ode to Poetry

Thou ill-formed lover,
No friend of mine.
That I should see
A merry heart, thine.

Thou, who lovest not hours
And not summer days,
When all the world
Doth love as praise.

Thou, who keepest night
Fain a gift to thee,
To quake my dreams
With felled mystery.

A saucy fool, thou dress to be,
Thy gold my eyes have yet to see,
But to thy handsome, timid glee,
I do call thou my curiosity.