Does a pure heart a better poet make,
Whose inner frame is as by God begot-
Swaying, shaping what the writer would take,
And by this inspiration mold the plot?
Or may an impure soul take up the dye
And scribe onto the canvas-page the same;
Be moved, as it were, by the Muses' cry
Though heart be vile, or morally maim?
Are both, scribing their words, Poetry's heir
(So that neither virtue nor vice opposed
Might hard contend for which author is dear;
That, judgeless, she takes in what each composed) ,
Or is it that her Muse will choose her heirs
And divide, as with sickle, wheat from tares?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem