To R.B.

  • To R.B.

  • 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.