Poem by Mortimer Collins

Death the Poet's Birth

The poet may tread earth sadly,
⁠     Yet is he dreamland's king,
And the fays at his bidding gladly
⁠     Visions of beauty bring;
But his joys will be rarer, finer,
⁠     Away from this earthly stage,
When he, who is now a minor.
          ⁠⁠Comes of age.

Roll on, O! tardy cycle,
⁠     Whose death is the poet's birth;
Blow soon, great trump of Michael,
     ⁠Shatter the crust of earth;
Let the slow spheres turn faster;
     ⁠Hasten the heritage
Of him, who, as life's true master,
⁠⁠          Comes of age. 

1. A Game of Chess
2. My Thrush
3. To My Wife
4. The Ballad of Eleänore
5. Last Verses Written by Mortimer Collins

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