The Poet
Not yet could he participate
In sweet accomplished work—his will
Stood with drawn weapon at the gate
Of his own Paradise, that still
The unfulfilled he might fulfil.
In sweet accomplished work—his will
Stood with drawn weapon at the gate
Of his own Paradise, that still
The unfulfilled he might fulfil.
Nor, the abyss of chaos spanned,
Could he for any period rest—
Awaiting his creative hand
The thought of Heavens unpossess'd
Roused all the passion in his breast.
Could he for any period rest—
Awaiting his creative hand
The thought of Heavens unpossess'd
Roused all the passion in his breast.
With yearning heart and eyes afire—
With tears and splendid speech imbued,
Scarce conscious of his own desire,
He endless world on world pursued
Of ever-growing magnitude.
With tears and splendid speech imbued,
Scarce conscious of his own desire,
He endless world on world pursued
Of ever-growing magnitude.
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