Now if Euterpe held me not in scorn, I'd shape a lyric, perfect, fair, and round As that thin band of gold wherewith I bound Your slender finger our betrothal morn. Not of Desire alone is music born, Not till the Muse wills is our passion crowned: Unsought she comes, if sought but seldom found. Hence is it Poets often are forlorn, Taciturn, shy, self-immolated, pale, Taking no healthy pleasure in their kind -- Wrapt in their dream as in a coat-of-mail. Hence is it I, the least, a very hind, Have stolen away into this leafy vale Drawn by the flutings of the silvery wind. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MAY MORNING by CELIA LEIGHTON THAXTER THE NUANCES OF MENDACITY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS MISUNDERSTANDINGS by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE ANCRE AT HAMEL: AFTERWARDS by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE FARMER'S WIFE by BERTON BRALEY BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS: BOOK 2. THE FIRST SONG by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |