Mine Is No Horse Without Wings Poem by Phiwokuhle Mpendulo Manana

Mine is no horse with wings, to gain
The region of the spheral chime;
I do but drag a rumbling wain,
Cheer'd by the coupled bells of rhyme;
And if at Fame's bewitching note
My homely Pegasus pricks an ear,
The world's cart-collar hugs his throat,
And he's too wise to prance or rear.'


Thus ever answer'd Vaughan my love
Who, more than I desired my fame;
But, in my heart, I thoughts were rife
How for you sake to earn a name.
With bays poetic three times crown'd,
And other college honours won,
I, if I chose, might be renown'd,
I had but little doubt, you none;
And in a loftier phrase I talk'd
With you, upon
While through the fields we walk'd,
By the way.


Not careless of the gift of song,
Nor out of love with noble fame,
I, meditating much and long
What I should sing, how win a name,
Considering well what theme unsung,
What reason worth the cost of rhyme,
Remains to loose the poet's tongue
In these last days, the dregs of time,
Learn that to me, though born so late,
There does, beyond desert, befall
(May my great fortune make me great!)
The first of themes, sung last of all.
In green and undiscover'd ground,
Yet near where many others sing,
I have the very well-head found
Whence gushes the Pierian Spring.'


What is it, dear, The Life
Of Arthur, or Tristan's Fall? '
'Neither: your gentle self, my love,
And love, that grows from one to all.
And if I faithfully proclaim
Of these the exceeding worthiness,
Surely the sweetest wreath of Fame
Shall, to your hope, my brows caress;
And if, by virtue of my choice
Of this, the most heart-touching theme
That ever tuned a poet's voice,


I live, as I am bold to dream,
To be delight to many days,
And into silence only cease
When those are still, who shared their bays
With you and me around the coast.
Imagine, Love, how learned men.
Beyond my purpose and my ken,
An ancient bard of simple mind.
You, Sweet, Mistress, and Muse,
Were you for mortal wench meant?
Your praises gives a hundred clues
To mythological intent!
And, severing thus the truth from trope,
In you the Commentators see
Outlines occult of abstract scope,
A future for philosophy!
Your arm's on mine! these are the meads
In which we pass our living days;
There Avon runs, now hid with reeds,
Now brightly brimming pebbly bays;
Those are our songs to come.


With bells and bleatings of the sheep;
And there, in yonder Swatiland home,
We thrive on mortal food and shealter.
But I had grown distraught, because
The Muse's mood began to stir.
My purpose with performance crown'd,
I will be well-pleased, you rehearse
When thenext Day came round.