O'ERWHELM'D with pleasure at the joyful news, I strung the chorded shell, and woke the Muse. Begin, O servant of the sacred Nine, And echo joy through every nervous line; Bring down th' ethereal choir to aid the song; Let boundless rapture smoothly glide along. My Baker's well! Oh, words of sweet delight! Now, now, my Muse, soar up th' Olympic height. What wondrous numbers can the goddess find, To paint th' ecstatic raptures of my mind? I leave it to a goddess more divine, The beauteous Hoyland shall employ my line. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FLORIDA GHOST by SIDNEY LANIER THE CEMETERY BY THE SEA by PAUL VALERY THE GOLDEN NET by WILLIAM BLAKE THE LONELY HOUSE by EMILY DICKINSON GOOD-BYE MY FANCY! by WALT WHITMAN SEVEN SAD SONNETS: 1. THE HAPPENING by MARY REYNOLDS ALDIS |