Invocation

Radiant Muse, my childhood's nurse,
Who gave my wondering mouth to taste
The fragrant honeycomb of verse;
And later smilingly embraced
My boyhood, ripening its crude
Harsh vigour in your solitude:
Compose the mingling thoughts that crowd
Upon me to a lucid line;
Teach me at last to speak aloud
In words that are no longer mine;
For at your touch, discreet, profound,
Ten thousand years softly resound.
I do not now revolt, or quarrel
With the paths you make me tread,
But choose the honeycomb and laurel
And walk with patience towards the dead;
Expecting, where my rest is stayed,
A welcome in that windless shade.