THE poet snares his prize As in a fowler's noose, Then plies The chisel gravers use. For, that his blade may wreak On metal of hard core His freak, Deep must he carve and bore. Hard is the task! You hold As I, the Muse must find The old Strict bondage to her mind; That, shining, firm, the flow Of lovely line hard-wrought Doth show Smooth-browed the labouring thought. For you who do bestride Exalted, the wild horse Soft-eyed That down the skies doth course; O! you who have the sleight To snare in net of words Your bright Dream-pinions like a bird's; Master who mak'st us fain Of the green laurel, still You deign To ply the tool with skill. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CHARACTER OF A GOOD PARSON by GEOFFREY CHAUCER FACADE: 17. DARK SONG by EDITH SITWELL CEREMONIAL ODE; INTENDED FOR A UNIVERSITY by LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE PSALM 76 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE THE RIVER HOUSE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN GOOD-BYE by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT JOHN MASEFIELD by AMY SHERMAN BRIDGMAN |