The Poet

Until he hears Apollo's call To make a hallowed sacrifice,

A Poet lives in feeble thrall To people's empty vanities;

And silent is his sacred lyre,

His soul partakes of chilly sleep,

And of the world's unworthy sons He is, perhaps, the very least.

But once Divinity's command Approaches his exquisite ear,

The poet's soul awakens, poised,

Just like an eagle stirred from sleep.

All worldly pleasures leave him cold,

From common talk he stays aloof,

And will not lower his proud head Before the nation's sacred cow.

Untamed and brooding, he takes flight,

Seething with sound and agitation,

To reach a sea-swept, desert shore,

A woodland wide and murmuring...