I would not paint-a picture-
I'd rather be the One
Its bright impossibility
To dwell-delicious-on-
And wonder how the fingers feel
Whose rare-celestial-stir-
Evokes so sweet a Torment-
Such sumptuous-Despair-

I would not talk, like Cornets-
I'd rather be the One
Raised softly to the Ceilings-
And out, and easy on-
Through Villages of Ether-
Myself endued Balloon
By but a lip of Metal-
The pier to my Pontoon-

Nor would I be a Poet-
It's finer-own the Ear-
The License to revere,
A privilege so awful
What would the Dower be,
Had I the Art to stun myself
With Bolts of Melody!