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INSPIRATION
Not often do I feel that glow of thought
That fuses in its fire words, sense and soul
Into a living and triumphant whole,
Such as mere craftsmanship hath never wrought:
Yet in propitious hours that glow I feel,
And thoughts and words come freely and unbidden,
Such as I dreamed not in my mind were hidden,
And to myself a self unknown reveal:
Then do I know I've laboured not in vain.
And that what's written thus must needs endure,
Though evil fate may for a time obscure.
Or shallow critics slight it or disdain.
Vanity? No! That doth its own commend:
I speak of that which doth myself transcend.
That fuses in its fire words, sense and soul
Into a living and triumphant whole,
Such as mere craftsmanship hath never wrought:
Yet in propitious hours that glow I feel,
And thoughts and words come freely and unbidden,
Such as I dreamed not in my mind were hidden,
And to myself a self unknown reveal:
Then do I know I've laboured not in vain.
And that what's written thus must needs endure,
Though evil fate may for a time obscure.
Or shallow critics slight it or disdain.
Vanity? No! That doth its own commend:
I speak of that which doth myself transcend.
THE POETS APOLOGY
"Why of yourself do you for ever write,
Tiring us with your dreams, your loves and woes?
Your petty thoughts and passions are too slight
On which to raise a structure so verbose."
My friend, when I can wander in the sun
Divested of my shadow, then will I
Seek from myself and mine own thoughts to run.
And strive new worlds of fancy to descry.
The poet, though a Shakespeare, is a man.
And mirrors all men in his plastic mind,
And so, if but successfully he can
Express himself, expresses all mankind:
'Tis only when he's to himself untrue
That Nature and the Muse bid him adieu.
Tiring us with your dreams, your loves and woes?
Your petty thoughts and passions are too slight
On which to raise a structure so verbose."
My friend, when I can wander in the sun
Divested of my shadow, then will I
Seek from myself and mine own thoughts to run.
And strive new worlds of fancy to descry.
The poet, though a Shakespeare, is a man.
And mirrors all men in his plastic mind,
And so, if but successfully he can
Express himself, expresses all mankind:
'Tis only when he's to himself untrue
That Nature and the Muse bid him adieu.
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