The Poet's Muse
There was something amiss in that poem I read,
I cannot explain, but it seemed to be dead,
A rhythm and rhyme it had to be sure,
And pretty expressions it had, three or four.
‘Now that's not enough’ I said to my Muse,
‘It does not delight, it does not amuse,
It does not inform, it does not inspire,
Nor fill me with wonder, nor stir me with fire’.
‘That poem’, she said, ‘could never take wings,
It talks of the world and its tangible things,
The sources of beauty lie deep in the mind,
Now look in my eyes and speak what you find’.
Under a snowdrop inscribed in the dew
I found these few line and give them to you