WE poets pride ourselves on what We feel, and not what we achieve; The world may call our children fools, Enough for us that we conceive. A little wren that loves the grass Can be as proud as any lark That tumbles in a cloudless sky, Up near the sun, till he becomes The apple of that shining eye. So, lady, I would never dare To hear your music ev'ry day; With those great bursts that send my nerves In waves to pound my heart away; And those small notes that run like mice Bewitched by light; else on those keys -- My tombs of song -- you should engrave: "My music, stronger than his own, Has made this poet my dumb slave." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO A MOSQUITO by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE DYING WORDS OF STONEWALL JACKSON by SIDNEY LANIER HAUNTED HOUSES by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW HERO AND LEANDER by CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE COLUMBUS AND THE MAYFLOWER by RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES ON HIS BEING [OR, HAVING] ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE by JOHN MILTON THOSE VARIOUS SCALPELS by MARIANNE MOORE |