(no subject)

[avevale_intelligencer]

So Harper, laying by her gilded lyre,
Bade the nine sisters take a day of ease
And where they wontedly did her inspire
Gave o'er herself to earthly poesies.
But I, whose muse is old and apt to tire,
Whose store of verse is scant, whose wit doth seize
On singèd fragments reft from fashion's fire
Half burnt, whose cup is drained unto the lees,
Can do no less than that I do alway,
My best scarce good enough for Doggerel Day.

Comments

[the-gwenzilliad.livejournal.com]

Whenever I think I'm not good enough,
I ruminate upon my wealth of friends
Who're not afraid to fill my screen with fluff
Or send my iambs, lines with lovely ends.
And if their verses seem more coarse or rough
Than other effort rises and ascends,
I know true love can sing from voices gruff
As well as from a pen genius transcends.
You are a poem. When you write to me,
I know that poems should not mean, but be.

(With apologies to Archibald MacLeish)

*hugs*

[dickgloucester.livejournal.com]

You are a poem. When you write to me,
I know that poems should not mean, but be.

That's lovely!