Give me my mystery, nor let me be Set in a world of rote and rule o' thumb. My little eyes see all there is to see? My scrap of brain know all there is to know? My mumming lips are -- dumb Before the presences that form and flow Through each day's mystery! Then Fable, they malign you? 'Tis a day Assured of this, that nothing is assured. Come to me, Fable! Foot your satyr way! Since all's so plain there's nothing plain to me, Rather I would be cured By purest essences of phantasy As in the world's mad May! Right bard, who spoke for "Triton's wreathed horn"! And this I speak for: Glaucus and his train, Finned shapes and scaly, on this sea-blue morn Seek with their soft AEolic prophecies Lost islands of the main. I follow Leucothea overseas For the old myth reborn! Oh rough-horned river gods, blue-mantled round, Rise from your streams to-day that flow as flowed Thrice-haunted streams 'neath Myrtion! At the sound, Sweet Superstition, wake a little while -- As when the full spits lowed Through awe-struck silence on Apollo's isle And the Thrinakrian hides crept o'er the ground! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AURENG-ZEBE, OR THE GREAT MOGUL: PROLOGUE by JOHN DRYDEN ROBERT BROWNING by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 2D SERIES: 2. JONATHAN TO JOHN by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 71. THE CHOICE (1) by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI I AM NOT YOURS by SARA TEASDALE KITTY NEIL by JOHN FRANCIS WALLER |