The Poet

Until Apollo calls the Bard
To share the holy sacrifice,
Plunged in the petty cares of life
The Poet’s spirit lies.

Silent and still his sacred lyre,
His soul to sleep a prey,
Amongst earth’s worthless sons he seems
More worthless, p’raps, than they.

But once the sacred summons rings
And strikes his eager ears,
The Poet’s soul, like eagle roused,
On upward pinion steers.

Then earthly pleasures cease to charm;
He scorns the babbling crowd;
No more beneath their Idol’s feet
His haughty head is bowed.

He flies—and wild and stern his moods,
His notes, now grave, now gay—
To shores where lonely billows play,
To depths of whispering woods.