Sonnet To Spenser

by John Keats

    Spenser! a jealous honourer of thine,
    A forester deep in thy midmost trees,
    Did last eve ask my promise to refine
    Some English that might strive thine ear to please.
    But Elfin Poet 'tis impossible
    For an inhabitant of wintry earth
    To rise like Phoebus with a golden quill
    Fire-wing'd and make a morning in his mirth.
    It is impossible to escape from toil
    O' the sudden and receive thy spiriting:
    The flower must drink the nature of the soil
    Before it can put forth its blossoming:
    Be with me in the summer days, and I
    Will for thine honour and his pleasure try.