I NEVER drank of Aganippe's well, Nor ever did in shade of Tempe sit, And Muses scorn with vulgar brains to dwell; Poor layman I, for sacred rites unfit, Some do I hear of poets' fury tell, But, God wot, wot not what they mean by it; And this I swear by blackest brook of hell, I am no pick-purse of another's wit. How falls it then, that with so smooth an ease My thoughts I speak; and what I speak doth flow In verse, and that my verse best wits doth please? Guess we the cause? What, is it this: Fie, no. Or so? Much less. How then? Sure thus it is, My lips are sweet, inspired with Stella's kiss. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BEFORE THE BIRTH OF ONE OF HER CHILDREN by ANNE BRADSTREET FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY; A PATHETIC BALLAD by THOMAS HOOD BROTHERS by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS THE FISHER'S BOY by HENRY DAVID THOREAU TWO SONNETS: 1. CHRIST AND LOVE'S ROSE-CROWN by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) THE PUPPETS by PIERRE JEAN DE BERANGER |