Was it the proud full sail of his great verse, Bound for the prize of all too precious you, That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse, Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew? Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead? No, neither he, nor his compeers by night Giving him aid, my verse astonished. He, nor that affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence As victors of my silence cannot boast; I was not sick of any fear from thence: But when your countenance fill'd up his line, Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WHITE RABBIT by KAREN SWENSON THE SNOW-SHOWER by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT IN THE SHADOWS: 19 by DAVID GRAY (1838-1861) THE BATTLE OF THE KEGS by FRANCIS HOPKINSON TWILIGHT by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE ODE TO THE MAGUIRE by EOCHADH O'HUSSEY TO A HIGHLAND GIRL; AT INVERSNAID, UPON LOCH LOMOND by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH INSTRUCTIONS, SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN IN PARIS, FOR THE MOB IN ENGLAND by MARY (CUMBERLAND) ALCOCK |