First, let’s set the Poets’ league,
‘Tis not a thing Heaven has foreseen;
In formless silence the Poet dawns,
To call of Muse, the Poet forms.
There’s not a thing to do but listen,
As rhythmic aeons leave soul to glisten;
Thunderstruck once the Wild One,
Willingly leads your soul to song.
Stepped steeply into Nature’s weeping,
Finds fine the form of Tradition’s keeping;
A gardener of the endless soul,
Finely tuned tongue on endless roll.