XXVII — TO THE MUSE

Resign the rhapsody, the dream,

To men of larger reach;

Be ours the quest of a plain theme,

The piety of speech.

As monkish scribes from morning break

Toiled till the close of light,

Nor thought a day too long to make

One line or letter bright:

We also with an ardent mind,

Time, wealth, and fame forgot,

Our glory in our patience find

And skim, and skim the pot:

Till last, when round the house we hear

The evensong of birds,

One corner of blue heaven appear

In our clear well of words.

Leave, leave it then, muse of my heart!

Sans finish and sans frame,

Leave unadorned by needless art

The picture as it came.