WE poets pride ourselves on what We feel, and not what we achieve; The world may call our children fools, Enough for us that we conceive. A little wren that loves the grass Can be as proud as any lark That tumbles in a cloudless sky, Up near the sun, till he becomes The apple of that shining eye. So, lady, I would never dare To hear your music ev'ry day; With those great bursts that send my nerves In waves to pound my heart away; And those small notes that run like mice Bewitched by light; else on those keys -- My tombs of song -- you should engrave: "My music, stronger than his own, Has made this poet my dumb slave." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EASTER HYMN by GEORGE SANTAYANA GULF-WEED by CORNELIUS GEORGE FENNER THE WAY THROUGH THE WOODS by RUDYARD KIPLING RAIN IN SUMMER by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY by WILLIAM AUGUSTUS MUHLENBERG THE INVIOLATE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN TWO QUESTIONS by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE |