Sonnet — An Invocation to the Master #340
The bow of mind lays reluctantly,
The stringing will has lost its verve,
My quiver of words is all empty
For to what end do these verses serve?
To the muses’ chamber I daily arrive
To offer Thee new verse freshly bled,
At Thy feet I place all I can conceive,
Yet Thou remainest aloof and cold.
What wilt Thou do with hoarded amour,
Content Thou to be eternally alone,
Must Thy vast remain barren and austere,
A shadeless unpeopled light-blasted heaven?
Into Thy proximity admit a living breathing me,
For what use am I lifeless at the feet of Thee?!