I wish that I could sing as sweet
as nymphs, with wings upon their feet.
That I could dance their dervish dance,
spin round and round in mystic trance.
For maybe then I’d write like Keats,
rhyme deep as Yates, who reads like Yeats.
Lay lovely lines like Lakeside Bill,
each one a golden daffodil.
I wish the sound of skylark’s song
would make me weep, would let me long
for girl, I\'d breathed for, who once broke
my heart, by bitter words she spoke.
For then my rhymes would breathe romance.
They’d gleam and glow, and at one glance
my girl would then be wooed and won,
would meet me ‘neath the midnight sun.
I wish my pen would kiss like quill
of Sappho, then my page I’d fill
with teardrop words from clouds of fire,
all beauty-bled from dark desire.
Then verse that I composed in youth
(I’d passed off as inspired truth.)
I’d burn, like corpse beneath its shroud.
Replace with poems pure and proud!