Poem for May 27, 2024

You have asked for a verse:--the request

In a rhymer 'twere strange to deny;

But my Hippocrene was but my breast,

And my feelings (its fountain) are dry.

Were I now as I was, I had sung

What Lawrence has painted so well;

But the strain would expire on my tongue,

And the theme is too soft for my shell.

I am ashes where once I was fire,

And the bard in my bosom is dead;

What I loved I now merely admire,

And my heart is as grey as my head.

My Life is not dated by years--

There are _moments_ which act as a plough,

And there is not a furrow appears

But is deep in my soul as my brow.

Let the young and the brilliant aspire

To sing what I gaze on in vain;

For Sorrow has torn from my lyre

The string which was worthy the strain.

B.