The earth, in passion, quakes then quells;
The water rises then repels;
The gyre does of wind expire,
While the mountain vents its fire –
These are the poems of the earth
With lightning quilled a fright’ning birth,
Which if it were never to die
Would spell the reader’s ceaseless cry,
As infirm ground no ground to stand
The damning wave that drowns the land,
Or in the spire ever sick,
While all but burns on endless wick;
Hence – in passion – poets light
Dark subjects with a passive fight,
Knowing the eye alone can’t bring
Out of the bell sagacious ring
But must be scrawled to be allied
To man’s own wish for truth espied,
Which, if plainly penned, plain would be,
And lose all its intensity,
As one might a trite gift grant
In parcel thrice exorbitant,
As all things do if unended
Dwindle where they’re suspended,
Hence joy can disjoint the enjoyed
If it forever be employed,
As places where no one does greave
Turn morose if one can’t leave.
Ah, shall I clip my wordy rose
For the flower thereby grows,
And tell thee plain with little slant
What short words offer longer can’t:
Write nowhere where passion’s not,
Lest you wish your readers rot.

-Poyetikos