 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
69
IMAGINATION
Weary and weak, alone and ill at ease,
I summon subtle sprites that serve me well:
Then, at the bidding of the sudden spell,
The world slips from me; then the thundering breeze
I summon subtle sprites that serve me well:
Then, at the bidding of the sudden spell,
The world slips from me; then the thundering breeze
Whirls my frail bark beyond the Orcades,
And o'er me hangs, with spire and pinnacle,
A fretted ice-crag stooping through the swell,
Over the broad backs of the ranging seas.
And o'er me hangs, with spire and pinnacle,
A fretted ice-crag stooping through the swell,
Over the broad backs of the ranging seas.
The rapture fades; the fitful flame flares out,
Leaving me sad, and something less than man,
Pent in the circle of a rugged isle,
A later Prospero, without his smile,
Without his large philosophy, without
Miranda, and alone with Caliban.
Leaving me sad, and something less than man,
Pent in the circle of a rugged isle,
A later Prospero, without his smile,
Without his large philosophy, without
Miranda, and alone with Caliban.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |