Oh many a time with Ovid have I borne My father's vain, yet well-meant reprimand, To leave the sweet-air'd, clover-purpled land Of rhyme, -- its Lares loftily forlorn, With all their pure humanities unworn, -- To batten on the bare Theologies! To quench a glory lighted at the skies, Fed on one essence with the silver morn, Were of all blasphemies the most insane. So deeplier given to the delicious spell I clung to thee, heart-soothing Poesy! Now on a sick-bed rack'd with arrowy pain I lift white hands of gratitude, and cry, Spirit of God in Milton! was it well? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LITTLE PEOPLES by CLAUDE MCKAY UNDERWOODS: BOOK 1: 25. MOTHER AND SON by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON PRINCE ADEB by GEORGE HENRY BOKER THE ONE BEFORE THE LAST by RUPERT BROOKE THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: ASTARTE by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON MONHEGAN GULLS by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON LOVE'S COURTSHIP by THOMAS CAREW THE BLOSSOMING OF THE SOLITARY DATE-TREE. A LAMENT by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE |