To R B

The fine delight that fathers thought; the

Spur, live and lancing like the blowpipe flame,

Breathes once and, quenchèd faster than it came,

Leaves yet the mind a mother of immortal song.

Nine months she then, nay years, nine years she

Within her wears, bears, cares and moulds the same:

The widow of an insight lost she lives, with

Now known and hand at work now never wrong.  Sweet fire the sire of muse, my soul needs this;

I want the one rapture of an inspiration.

O then if in my lagging lines you

The roll, the rise, the carol, the creation,

My winter world, that scarcely breathes that

Now, yields you, with some sighs, our explanation.