In Poetry, I Sing My Soul

In poetry, I sing my soul free;
Let gods know, how bleeds my heart-plume;
And mortals see love by the daylight view.
For made I not from humus, nor from winds,
Nor from dust, if my lyrical being reduced be;
But by the passing clouds and fragrant fields
And morning lilies and the singing of the hills.
(Scream shall I from the top of my remaining
breath, lest I not be heard)

I sing Passion, my song, unbounded---
Not of Time, nor morality, nor affairs of men.
Let those phrases of old pass by unshadowed,
Make them Infinite, wake the slumbered many.
For my soul aches, as it meanders sleepless
Through mountain springs and foliage green,
Not to forget the many things I hold dearest.

And most of Everything, I sing of You,
You whom the world has unloved, but I.