If I had wings and poet’s skill,
a Muse at hand and time to kill,
I’d scribe for you such noble verses
about the beauty Nature nurses
inside a bud, on bough with leaf,
where wonder is the main motif.
I’d take my pen, like Bard with quill,
pour forth a stream, sublime and still.
Place pleasant poem on the page,
a song of love to never age,
grow old as moon and starry host,
or sea that creeps along the coast.
If Iines would gleam like dew at dawn,
lay down like jewels on leafy lawn.
I’d sparkle with the Muse’s magic,
rewrite those rhymes of truth so tragic.
Have Hector and Achilles yield,
bid both lay down their sword and shield.
If I composed like kindly Keats,
wrote rhymes where earth and heaven meets,
my poems would be less pedantic;
they’d bloom like rustic rose, romantic.
Then I would be a poet true
and I would touch the heart of you!