Poetic fancies are not rioting
For liberty, like prisoned birds in summer.
No thoughts, like maiden hair
, climb round and cling
To rhyming roosters writing on a thrummer;
But frowsy devils, round the camp to-night,
Suggest alone the commonplace and trite.
There is no bubbling spring within my clay;
I hold no lyrics straining at the tether;
My bones would drift right into blanket hay