 | Sonnets of the Wingless Hours |  |
4
TO THE MUSE
II.
Oh, were it not for thee, the dull dead weight
Of Time's great coils, too sluggishly unroll'd,
Which seem to creep across me fold on fold
As I lie prostrate, were for strength too great:
Of Time's great coils, too sluggishly unroll'd,
Which seem to creep across me fold on fold
As I lie prostrate, were for strength too great:
For health and motion are not all that Fate,
As years go by, continues to withhold;
A yet more noble birthright once was sold
For one small mess of pottage that I ate;
As years go by, continues to withhold;
A yet more noble birthright once was sold
For one small mess of pottage that I ate;
And like that king, who, prison'd underground
In caves of treasure, saw his starving self
Derided by uneatable gold all round,
In caves of treasure, saw his starving self
Derided by uneatable gold all round,
I fix my hungry eyes where, cruelly near,
Are standing closed, on every mocking shelf,
The books I dare not read and dare not hear.
Are standing closed, on every mocking shelf,
The books I dare not read and dare not hear.
| Sonnets of the Wingless Hours | |