I NEVER drank of Aganippe's well, Nor ever did in shade of Tempe sit, And Muses scorn with vulgar brains to dwell; Poor layman I, for sacred rites unfit, Some do I hear of poets' fury tell, But, God wot, wot not what they mean by it; And this I swear by blackest brook of hell, I am no pick-purse of another's wit. How falls it then, that with so smooth an ease My thoughts I speak; and what I speak doth flow In verse, and that my verse best wits doth please? Guess we the cause? What, is it this: Fie, no. Or so? Much less. How then? Sure thus it is, My lips are sweet, inspired with Stella's kiss. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AT CANDLE-LIGHTIN' TIME by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE PROBLEM by RALPH WALDO EMERSON THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND [NOVEMBER 19, 1620] by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS THE PRINCESS: SONG by ALFRED TENNYSON WELCOME, LITTLE STRANGER (BY A DISPLACED THREE-YEAR-OLD) by CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS ASPIRATIONS: 4 by MATHILDE BLIND |