Inspiration Poem by David Mitchell

I charge thee, my long absent friend,
Returned to me at last, descend!
The poet strolls o'er bush, o'er brier,
In search of thy celestial fire,
And climbs to soaring mountain height,
Asking himself 'What shall I write?
Of summer's odoriferous air?
The lustre of the beloved's hair?
Of space, of time, of death, of life?
Of mankind's miserable strife? '
We must admit Pope's general rule,
That every poet is a fool:
And, asking these things proves him so;
Only by writing can he know:
For poetry, the greatest art,
Is best delivered from the heart.

(Friday,31st March,2006.)