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.
