On a Golden Finch

Oh, faery finch, whose golden form does climb Athwart the starry bays of poesies, sweet, I hear your voice, and drown in slumber’s clime, As I sit, pond’ring in my woolen seat. My quill spills no sweet word or sweeter song, For my heart such cloyed passions cannot game, And doubly more lies speechless my sore tongue, And triply even more, my soul’s the same. As hours pass, upon these pages, bare I stare as if no passion stirs to fly. To mount into Eutrepe’s mystic lair I couldn’t, ‘till your tender lullaby Had touched my ear, and from my breast awoke Some passioned fire, hearing such sweet voice. Of Heaven’s bells and Heaven’s harps. Out spoke Your lilting charms which, magically employs All of the Muse’s finest strengths and spells: Eutrepe’s mystic hymn, Erato’s grace And Calliope’s trance which softly swells In finest verse, and in such verse does trace Vast time. Oh, finch, were it not for your song Nor for you visiting me, worn with age No words would spill from out my stricken tongue And writ wouldn’t be to you, my own homáge. © 2014 Gleb Zavlanov