| |
| THE FINE delight that fathers thought; the strong | |
| Spur, live and lancing like the blowpipe flame, | |
| Breathes once and, quenchèd faster than it came, | |
| Leaves yet the mind a mother of immortal song. | |
| Nine months she then, nay years, nine years she long | 5 |
| Within her wears, bears, cares and moulds the same: | |
| The widow of an insight lost she lives, with aim | |
| Now known and hand at work now never wrong. | |
| Sweet fire the sire of muse, my soul needs this; | |
| I want the one rapture of an inspiration. | 10 |
| O then if in my lagging lines you miss | |
| The roll, the rise, the carol, the creation, | |
| My winter world, that scarcely breathes that bliss | |
| Now, yields you, with some sighs, our explanation. | |
| |
| See Notes. |
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