I ask not much! but let th' "dank wynd" moan,
"Shimmer th' woold" and "rive the wanton surge;"
I ask not much; grant but an "eery drone,"
Some "wilding frondage" and a "bosky dirge;"
Grant me but these, and add a regal flush
Of "sundered hearts upreared upon a byre;"
Throw in some yearnings and a "darksome hush,"
And--asking nothing more--I'll smite th' lyre.
Yea, I will smite th' falt'ring, quiv'ring strings,
And magazines shall buy my murky stunts;
Too long I've held my hand to honest things,
Too long I've borne rejections and affronts;
Now will I be profound and recondite,
Yea, working all th' symbols and th' "props;"
Now will I write of "morn" and "yesternight;"
Now will I gush great gobs of soulful slops.
Yea, I will smite! Grant me but "swerveless wynd,"
And I will pipe a cadence rife with thrills;
With "nearness" and "foreverness" I'll bind
A "downflung sheaf" of outslants, pæans and trills;
Pass me th' "quenchless gleam of Titian hair,"
And eke th' "oozing forest's woozy clumps;"
Now will I go upon a metric tear
And smite th' lyre with great resounding thumps.