Was it the proud full sail of his great verse, Bound for the prize of all too precious you, That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse, Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew? Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead? No, neither he, nor his compeers by night Giving him aid, my verse astonished. He, nor that affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence As victors of my silence cannot boast; I was not sick of any fear from thence: But when your countenance fill'd up his line, Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AFTER A LECTURE ON KEATS by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES DANIEL WEBSTER by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES ALMS by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY RIFLEMAN FORM! by ALFRED TENNYSON RING FROM THE RIM OF THE GLASS, BOYS by JOHN CLINTON ANTHONY THE 'STAY AT HOME'S' PLAINT, 1878 by GEORGE AUGUSTUS BAKER JR. AFTER CHURCH by SAMUEL ALFRED BEADLE |