Who saith that poesy waxeth old,
That all her legends were long since told?
  It is not so! it is not so!
For while there's a stream in its crystal hall,
A sprig of ivy to climb the wall,
A sun to rise, or a star to fall,
  She'll find something new to describe, I know.

Who saith that her songs were long since sung,
And learn'd by rote when the world was young?
  It is not so! it is not so!
For while there's a blossom by summer drest,
A sigh for the sad, or a smile for the blest,
Or a changeful thought in the human breast,
  There'll be a new string for her lyre, I trow.

What she was when the timbrel of Miriam rang,
When the sightless Homer to Helle sang,
  Such, such is she now,—all fair and young.