To R. B.
14 lines✦
he fine delight that fathers thought; the strongSpur, live and lancing like the blowpipe flame,Breathes once and, quenchèd faster than it came,Leaves yet the mind a mother of immortal song.Nine months she then, nay years, nine years she longWithin her wears, bears, cares and moulds the same:The widow of an insight lost she lives, with aimNow known and hand at work now never wrong. Sweet fire the sire of muse, my soul needs this;I want the one rapture of an inspiration.O then if in my lagging lines you missThe roll, the rise, the carol, the creation,My winter world, that scarcely breathes that blissNow, yields you, with some sighs, our explanation.
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