The Poet Speaks
In the mundane darkness of the morn,
The world awakened in its scorn,
Writes the weary pen on pages torn,
Tales of castles and mysteries forlorn.
All that the heavy eyelids could snatch,
Whispers of the noise the ears catch,
Whatever could the drowsy mind match,
Their judged truths with unseen sorrows attach.
That which the bustling globe ever saw,
Painters on colored pages ever draw,
The poet with weeping smiles adorns the flaw,
At tranquil midnights which none but he foresaw.