We poets pride ourselves on what
We feel, and not what we achieve;
The world may call our children fools,
Enough for us that we conceive.
A little wren that loves the grass
Can be as proud as any lark
That tumbles in a cloudless sky,
Up near the sun, till he becomes
The apple of that shining eye.
So, lady, I would never dare
To hear your music ev'ry day;
With those great bursts that send my nerves
In waves to pound my heart away;
And those small notes that run like mice
Bewitched by light; else on those keys -
My tombs of song - you should engrave:
'My music, stronger than his own,
Has made this poet my dumb slave.'
On Hearing Mrs. Woodhouse Play The Harpsichord
William Henry Davies
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Poem topics: away, children, feel, heart, light, never, pride, sky, song, sun, world, april fools, grass, great, small, hear, apple, lady, achieve, slave, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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