The Thinker's Childhood Poem by Carl Domingo

Betimes a silent thought itself conceive
There error was (how did itself redeem?)
The seed of creation did not receive
A place of rightly birth instead by dream
Was never born, indeed a tragic song-
A night of sooth be say'd: foretold, unheard
I bore of tales, I heard of lively songs
When silent voices would lay goodly word
Unwrit they were, unwrit were lovely songs-
Yet glad, mine heart did rhyme atwain a feet
My soul beflew wherefrom a mind
A blow of air would I (if still) bemeet
What gladness be more swift than of the wind?
Be still my soul, be still my slumb'ring flesh
Believe my song as minds were doubtf'lly fresh.