There are scanty men of tasty rhyme.
Shakespeare is dead and Marlow has gone with time,
Tennyson is under the soil and Holmes is no more;
Bunyan will never live again, and where is Poe?
I miss the verse of Nahum Tate,
A man stolen by the tides of fate.
I wish I could behold the mien of Coleridge,
Or see Longfellow musing upon a lonely bridge!
Now the uncoursed apprentices of this superior art
Have been left to dash hither and thither,
Knowing not which word to choose,
Chasing in vain some erratic Muse.
They say that little boats ought to keep the shore
And that larger ones may venture more.
I vote to labor on hot days and lonely nights,
I choose to rob myself of sleep and such basic rights
And attempt to fill these gaping gaps.
I seek no gain on this sorrowful earth,
I labour to earn some mystic mirth
When warmed by the blissful wings of death;
When its vanished the deceitful pride of breath.
Let no man recognize me for my plaintive works
While I'm on this earth of muddy murks!
Categories:
uncoursed, art, lonely,
Form: Rhyme
There are scanty men of tasty rhyme.
Shakespeare is dead and Marlow has gone with time,
Tennyson is under the soil and Holmes is no more;
Bunyan will never live again, and where is Poe?
I miss the verse of Nahum Tate,
A man stolen by the tides of fate.
I wish I could behold the mien of Coleridge,
Or see Longfellow musing upon a lonely bridge!
Now the uncoursed apprentices of this superior art
Have been left to dash hither and thither,
Knowing not which word to choose,
Chasing in vain some erratic Muse.
They say that little boats ought to keep the shore
And that larger ones may venture more.
I vote to labor on hot days and lonely nights,
I choose to rob myself of sleep and such basic rights
And attempt to fill these gaping gaps.
I seek no gain on this sorrowful earth,
I labour to earn some mystic mirth
When warmed by the blissful wings of death;
When its vanished the deceitful pride of breath.
Let no man recognize me for my plaintive works
While I'm on this earth of muddy murks!
Categories:
uncoursed, art, lonely,
Form: Rhyme
The ladders by which I shall soar
And the uncoursed peaks I must tour,
Are set before my gaze;
A complex and baffling maze.
For this I need my paths well to know:
That I'm not the son of a knight,
And I was not born with a silver spoon in the mouth
Nor did any wise men visit from the east or the south
After my lowly birth to Lord's servants meek.
I shall through all means known and also those unknown
Pierce every opposition and walls of dark;
For I'm my Heavenly Father's son,
And Him well-pleased with me nothing I shall lack;
To me belong all go-downs of silver and gold;
Every bit of success is His still,
And while sure that this all He shall bestow,
I just beg to do His will.
It shall astound many my soaring to fame,
When devil's cohorts shall labor under spirits lame;
And all my beloved friends I shall surprise.
I pray this day she be alive my affectionate mum,
And my father's departed spirit still with me,
Oh! what a wonderful day this shall be!
And the Lord who rules by His Omnipotent rod,
Shall all His vital mercies afford.
Categories:
uncoursed, hopeday, me, silver,
Form: Rhyme