The magic of the poets, who bestir
Their art to loosen spirit’s careful catches
And split our secret bolts like gossamer.
To sprinkle moonseed on the tight-locked soul
Bidding it open, or stand soft ajar—
To sprinkle moonseed, gathered thus and so,
This is the poet’s honourable rôle.
Like some old Tudor captain bound afar
I hear him crying Inward! Inward Ho!
Books by Christopher Morley