 | The complete poetical works of Oliver Wendell Holmes |  |
INVITÂ MINERVÂ
I find the burden and restrictions of rhyme more and more troublesome as I grow older. There are times when it seems natural enough to employ that form of expression, but it is only occasionally; and the use of it as a vehicle of the commonplace is so prevalent that one is not much tempted to select it as the medium for his thoughts and emotions. The art of rhyming has almost become a part of a high-school education, and its practice is far from being an evidence of intellectual distinction. Mediocrity is as much forbidden to the poet in our days as it was in those of Horace, and the immense majority of the verses written are stamped with hopeless mediocrity.
When one of the ancient poets found he was trying to grind out verses which came unwillingly, he said he was writing Invitâ Minervâ.
She will not hear thy call;
She steals upon thee unawares,
Or seeks thee not at all.
Endymion's fragrant bower,
She parts the whispering leaves of thought
To show her full-blown flower.
The singing birds have flown,
And winter comes with icy blast
To chill thy buds unblown.
As once their arches rung,
Sweet echoes hover round thee still
Of songs thy summer sung.
The rush of heaven-sent wings;
Earth still has music left in store
While Memory sighs and sings.
| The complete poetical works of Oliver Wendell Holmes | |