'Tis not ev'ry day, that I Fitted am to prophesie: No, but when the Spirit fils The fantastick Pannicles: Full of fier; then I write As the Godhead doth indite. Thus inrag'd, my lines are hurl'd, Like the Sybells, through the world. Look how next the holy fier Either slakes, or doth retire; So the Fancie cooles, till when That brave Spirit comes agen. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MESSIAH by MABEL WARREN ARNOLD THE POET'S WIFE by JESSICA BELL A NEW PILGRIMAGE: 10 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT CROSS AND THRONE by HORATIO (HORATIUS) BONAR BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS: BOOK 1. THE SECOND SONG by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |