O Poesy
O Poesy, strike once more the inner sense
Which aches for beauty that lives beyond death.
Teach my tongue the lofty song, Recompense,
For what Poets suffered, ere the final breath,
In flights of verse that have one noble aim:
To give back to us new truths to proclaim.
Now, does the brain, simmering in hot passions,
Force the hand to jot unpremeditated thought
Like madmen in epileptic delusions?
Or should the eager hand flow with a slow plot
And uncover a sweet, smooth string of words
Not spoken, but sung in harmony with birds?
When I craft the rhyme worth another’s time
It shall spill natural: my Soul will have voice,
And youthful desire, burning in its prime,
Will fuel my purpose, and set me in poise.
Apollo! The lyre: pluck once more the strings,
And call forth those immortal words with wings.
