Imagination! Lift up thyself,
With crampons on the cliffs around
(Hallowed, humble, vaporous mist!)
Incline to scale, yourself unground.
In some the sun’s low orb ignites
The organ of an inspiration
And then Apollo’s daily crossing
Does burn out gold-streaming creation.
While I – still orbless – bemoan at length
The wintry dark of discontent,
And passing time produces nought
Nor yet to prove us produce bent.
Just as the crone’s regressive nail
Does me Ambition oft’ transgress,
Like hers, back into body, carving,
Splicing o’er-ripening agedness.
Hark thou – Mont Parnassus –
Let not my winged fancy fail
You who still stand tall in text,
Descend lest beaten track I trail.
May I not write for sight, taste, ear,
But rather for that fathered thing:
A selfhood that in us be crowned.
When birthed then are our lives renowned.