THE fine delight that fathers thought; the strong Spur, live and lancing like the blowpipe flame, Breathes once and, quenched faster than it came, Leaves yet the mind a mother of immortal song. Nine months she then, nay years, nine years she long Within her wears, bears, cares and moulds the same: The widow of an insight lost she lives, with aim Now known and hand at work now never wrong. Sweet fire the sire of muse, my soul needs this; I want the one rapture of an inspiration. O then if in my lagging lines you miss The roll, the rise, the carol, the creation, My winter world, that scarcely breathes that bliss Now, yields you, with some sighs, our explanation. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WE HAVE GONE THROUGH GREAT ROOMS TOGETHER by CARL SANDBURG LOVE'S SECRET, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE MY GARDEN by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN VITAI LAMPADA by HENRY JOHN NEWBOLT SATIRE: 4 by AULUS PERSIUS FLACCUS FRAGMENTS OF A POEM ON THE EXCELLENCE OF CHRISTIANITY by JAMES HAY BEATTIE HADRIAN IN EGYPT by GORDON BOTTOMLEY TO A FRIEND IN THE NAVY, SICK AT HOME by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD |