Must write a sonnet!—ere the Poet’s rank,
With its devouring hopes, I dare to claim—
Ere I with them may seek a place or name—
Ere I may taste Castalia’s fount, where drank
The bards of eld, or find the flowery bank
Of clear Penneus, flashing back the flame
Of sunset fires. Thro’ moorlands, low and dank,
Alone, must grope, unlit by torch of fame.
Tho’ Poesy should stir my soul to song
That flowed like liquid tenderness along,
Or, wild and glad as leaping forest rills—
Tho’ Nature’s music thro’ my being thrills
And Imagery, with all her fairy throng,
My dreamy world of thought and vision fills,—
Alas! I’m doomed—this stanza is a line too long.