- 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.
