The poet's voice, a lonely flute
From the grotto of orphaned dreams,
And Sorrow the arms which wrap him
'Til e'en they grow frail, and falter,
Thus failing, cast him down-
A writhing soul unblest
By fair Sleep's last kiss...
His word, a sword
And princely thing!
His power firm, and curse-
For his the alighting of Heaven's sighs
Or a phrase to stymie giants...
Tho his thousand sonnets tribute Roses,
Nary a one will bed him-
For his the rage of the seeking Winds
Which howl through gardened graves,
A midnight dance of madness
By angels peopled and tears companioned...
Thus, then, he lives,
As touching the Dark,
And then the Dark awakens...