Is it with a voice of longing
That poetry should pluck out notes of feeling,
Aided by the intrepid gaze and a keen eye
Tracing the crystalline billow of a cloudy exhalation,
Drawing back but a bit of the frosted dust of a morning
Into the breath of a pen —
With that ink, should the poet declare then
That in the quietness of this space
That revelation came, with the fragrance
Of great Romantic phrases?
O muse! O great fields of possibility,
That which comes on a day of ablution,
Baptism of white fields overstretching over
Untouched landscape marked only by stolen words
My moment, footprints of man, cutting through the snowy plains!

To whom am I singing, and for what reason am I imitating
Wordsworth from the past? Other than that I am afloat
On an anachronistic inspiration, there is no reason I can
Properly designate for this stiffly fluid, archaic play of syllables,
This fantasy, a form of speech that lolls in the dream that somehow
Beauty without substance can act to patch without healing,
Cover without seeing, the grey, harsh cuts of reality that has that blood-reek.

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