Give me my mystery, nor let me be Set in a world of rote and rule o' thumb. My little eyes see all there is to see? My scrap of brain know all there is to know? My mumming lips are -- dumb Before the presences that form and flow Through each day's mystery! Then Fable, they malign you? 'Tis a day Assured of this, that nothing is assured. Come to me, Fable! Foot your satyr way! Since all's so plain there's nothing plain to me, Rather I would be cured By purest essences of phantasy As in the world's mad May! Right bard, who spoke for "Triton's wreathed horn"! And this I speak for: Glaucus and his train, Finned shapes and scaly, on this sea-blue morn Seek with their soft AEolic prophecies Lost islands of the main. I follow Leucothea overseas For the old myth reborn! Oh rough-horned river gods, blue-mantled round, Rise from your streams to-day that flow as flowed Thrice-haunted streams 'neath Myrtion! At the sound, Sweet Superstition, wake a little while -- As when the full spits lowed Through awe-struck silence on Apollo's isle And the Thrinakrian hides crept o'er the ground! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THOUGHTS ON THE COMMANDMENTS by GEORGE AUGUSTUS BAKER JR. MITHRIDATES by RALPH WALDO EMERSON THE SHADES OF NIGHT by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN CHILDREN by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR THE WHITE SHIP by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI A NEW PILGRIMAGE: 32 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT CAELIA: SONNETS: 5 by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 3. ON THE EVE OF DEPARTURE by EDWARD CARPENTER |