Sonnet: To A Young Lady Who Sent Me A Laurel Crown


    Fresh morning gusts have blown away all fear
    From my glad bosom, now from gloominess
    I mount for ever not an atom less
    Than the proud laurel shall content my bier.
    No! by the eternal stars! or why sit here
    In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press
    Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless
    By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear.
    Lo! who dares say, "Do this"? Who dares call down
    My will from its high purpose? Who say,"Stand,"
    Or, "Go"? This mighty moment I would frown
    On abject Caesars not the stoutest band
    Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown:
    Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand!


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