The fine delight that fathers thought; the strong
Spur, live and lancing like the blowpipe flame,
Breathes once and, quenchèd faster than it came,
Leaves yet the mind a mother of immortal song.
Nine months she then, nay years, nine years she long
Within her wears, bears, cares and moulds the same:
The widow of an insight lost she lives, with aim
Now known and hand at work now never wrong.
Sweet fire the sire of muse, my soul needs this;
I want the one rapture of an inspiration.
O then if in my lagging lines you miss
The roll, the rise, the carol, the creation,
My winter world, that scarcely breathes that bliss
Now, yields you, with some sighs, our explanation.
Leave a guest comment (subject to review)
Comments
-
I've only recently "discovered" G.M.H. for myself, and like his verse much
Two things leap out to me, the assonance & alliteration. Then there's the element of riddle, or metaphor and mystery.
"Sweet fire the sire of muse, my soul needs this;
I want the one rapture of an inspiration."
The elements of mysticism and passion are alive in these lines.
Seems to be written mostly in iambic pentametre, but the poet doesn't keep within strict bounds of metre.
Adding your comment:
