0 hallowed be the mind in solitude!
That holds the pen to rhyme, without fine wine;
His joys and woes caused by the multitude,
For Prose is earthly, Poetry's divine!
Great is the mind that talks from heart to heart,
And praises to his pen which moves as swift;
And within moments, founded is his art,
By thoughts that flash, before his bark's adrift.
Oh, what adroitness marks his mighty pen!
That scribbles fast the thoughts that seize on him?
Though all the while quite passive stays his ken,
Allowing heart to overflow its brim.
0 Prose is earthly, Poetry's divine!
The latter inebriates more than wine.