Arthur Boyer

Why am I always at a loss

For songs in which to dip my pen?

Perhaps the fault is mine to gloss

O’er matters which themselves do lend

Their use to useless poets, who

Speak naught, nor puzzle, for the sake

Of generations yet un-bloomed,

As giants who on shoulders take

The better view to thus explain

Nature’s bewildering domain.

Let me then, in speech ornate

Instead dress up internal feuds

For, at least, so garbed I freely state

What, naked, I would not allude:

An endless siege of I on me

To hold hostage the hours

Tribunals of conscience convene,

And judge the merit of my powers:

“Abandon not the way of truth,

Your voice, if lettered, does not soothe.”



Immortal verse needs mortal toil

which springs to Day the breaking seed

nor passions, nor musings manic soil

than soil could till or lightning feed.

Mark you how’t comes our lesser breeds

do to the mausoleum ‘fine

this play of words that is the Bard’s -

at whose offending gifts divine

the Sophist stabs, toujours en garde

‘gainst he whose hammers smash the Lie?

Be it so? Then let the Masters be

long as this verse is nursed by thee.

Originally published at



Arthur Boyer

Arthur Boyer

I have failed at many things and succeeded at others.