THEY catalogue their minutes: Now, now, now, Is Actual, amid the fugitive; Take ink and pen (they say) for that is how We snare this flying life, and make it live. So to their little pictures, and they sieve Their happinesses: fields turned by the plough, The afterglow that summer sunsets give, The razor concave of a great ship's bow. O gallant instinct, folly for men's mirth! Type cannot burn and sparkle on the page. No glittering ink can make this written word Shine clear enough to speak the noble rage And instancy of life. All sonnets blurred The sudden mood of truth that gave them birth. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GOD'S DETERMINATIONS: THE JOY OF CHURCH FELLOWSHIP RIGHTLY ATTENDED by EDWARD TAYLOR THE GLOW-WORM by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 37 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH RHAPSODY by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE THE WANDERER: PROLOGUE. PART 1 by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |