Each morn Saki proclaims: my Love divine.
Awake, and on Azure, like Titan shine,
Ah, take in hand and turn the bowl of Life
And turning fill it up with your own Wine!
Ah, this illusive Life we go a-quest
Is but Sorrow’s smile, a peace named ‘Unrest’,
A shadow between ‘Is’ and ‘Is-not’ cast:
Or, ‘twixt Vigil and Sleep misgiving prest.
And then, what had their Visions to reveal
They but with a thousand disputes did deal,
In the book of Untruth call’d—‘History’—
And lo, thereupon of Truth put a Seal!
Sublime like sky, though by the base earth bound,
A morning star in misty mantle wound;
And so the Poet stands: as stern as tower,
The light within him and the storm around.
Griefs in rife: was it all but Heaven’s plan
And that Potter’s___our comely shapes to ban?
And then in Torture’s kiln mould us to think
There’s no soul on earth more wretched than Man!
Two young souls, the gems of Learning
Seated at some place of solace,
Were in hot pursuit arguing:
Why old Art with new should keep pace?
How long to sing of old Shakespeare?
To learn his wild notes of the wood?
Thrust ‘Hamlet’, ’Macbeth’ or ’KingLear’
On spaceage man of modern mood?
Whether it is still wise to use
Decrepit lyre of Odes of Keats,
Along with melodies and muse
Of Kipling, Eliot or Yeats?
To hear of yore, trace tales untold,
Amid the painful present?___phew!
If ‘Old’ is really the gold
What better name or worth has ‘New’?
But soon a sage who heard them,said:-
“Friends! why brood o’er such fallacy?
The path that guides not wherefore tread;
Thus seek Truth______unreasoningly?
Verse or Music care not for time,
No line can their spirit divide,
Their voices soar from clime to clime,
Live for Love and by Faith abide!
Art like God’s Nature is not for ’end’ born,
Her Beauty divine shines on each fair morn!
If' 'Art is imitation'——there's no crime
To gain light from the stars of rarest ken,
To dream of deep dales where Daffodils reign
Those rapt Muses of Elysian clime
Where Calliope's son had spurr'd his rhyme,
And Clio's great Bard voic'd the wood notes wild,
Where that plumed philomel, Aphrodite's child,
With Beauty's sceptre swayed the realms of Time.
And hence their Verse is scrib'd upon my brow;
Know not I------whether for high bliss,or blame?
But, faithful minds no craze for caprice show,
The silver lamp in hut dims not its flame!
What though with benighted charms, yet the Moon
Is poets' paradise and lovers' boon.
To those Luminaries who enlighten not,nor lead
Great men of words are lost in arcane Muse
On glory's towers, charmed by the ego's jars,
Their conquered ken poised on pens' scimitars
Has no might for the meek to give them cues,
And hence with my art they do have the ruse,
As the dawn's dreadful dragon snipes the stars,
Ah, how oft' their pride new perfection mars
How oft'n just pleas their pleasures but refuse!
But yet with poesy's deep pathos I sing
For fame's Naiad veil'd in the lake of death,
And on the parch'd, pale petals write my rhyme,
Stemm'd from autumn's soil for tomorrow's spring ,
While my flaming heart firmly wields this faith:
True Verse is Nature's voice, echoed by Time!