So languish thee, with veiled eye, thou poet,
When thou knowest breaking is the dawn;
For when thou wakest then, thy quill is still;
Though sleep, though rest is done, thy dream is gone.
And languish thee, at dawn’s decry, thou poet
Though thy dream escapeth through the morn;
At rest, and restlessness, this day thou lay
With each forgotten dream of thine unborn.
Then languish thee, though bright the sky, thou poet
Uninspired, helpless at midday,
Though sun with beauty bathes–at best a jest,
Its rays inspire golden fields of hay.
Now languish poet, day is not yet done;
Yet soon ’tis afternoon–the sun… has won.