A poem to be gathered in a book
Of golden song, to occupy its nook
In a collection not unworthily,
An ode, a sonnet, or an elegy—
This was and is my day-dream. Oh for power
To generate a marvel, like a flower
Delicate; polished, damascened with gold
And rich enamelled, like a sword-hilt old!
No monument ambitious would I raise,
Pyramid or palace that would fix the gaze,
Or pompous column towering to the skies,
But a mere atom, nothing in its size,
Yet a creation, wonderful; sublime
By its perfection; a short magic rhyme;
A work of patience, humble, seeming slight,
Formed slowly, like the brilliant stalactite,
Worth a great poem in its tenuity,
And born to last through all eternity.
Oh to show forth What constancy of heart
And study may achieve in noble art!
Oh to create with love and anxious care,
And leave the world, the poet's only heir,
A brave medallion like a relic rare
