I do not here upon this hum'rous stage Bring my transformed verse, appareled With others' passions or with others' rage, With loves, with wounds, with factions furnished; But here present thee, only modeled In this poor frame, the form of mine own heart. Here, to revive myself, my muse is led With motions of her own t' act her own part, Striving to make her now contemned art As fair t' herself as possibly she can, Lest seeming of no force, of no desert, She might repent the course that she began, And with these times of dissolution, fall From goodness, virtue, glory, fame, and all. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WILLIAM P. FRYE [FEBRUARY 28, 1915] by JEANNE ROBERT FOSTER REBEL COLOR-BEARERS AT SHILOH by HERMAN MELVILLE THE LONELY CHILD by JAMES OPPENHEIM VIGNETTES OVERSEAS: 5. NIGHT SONG AT AMALFI by SARA TEASDALE A RECEIPT FOR WRITING A NOVEL by MARY (CUMBERLAND) ALCOCK |