06.05.2012, 11:55
Merlie
SHE cares but for the truth told simple-wise,
Nor understands why truth should be more true
Arrayed in finer than the common guise,
With pulses as of life reiterant through
The rang'd syllables; but though she feels
No truth of truth within the throbbing line,
Nor knows the fire along the blood that steals
Of them who worship at the Muses' shrine,
Yet on a page eternal doth she write,
With steadfast labour of her hands and brain,
A Poem with all heavenly grace bedight
And far excelling every poet's strain,
Whose words are deeds of happy sacrifice
Which angels read with joy in Paradise.
SHE cares but for the truth told simple-wise,
Nor understands why truth should be more true
Arrayed in finer than the common guise,
With pulses as of life reiterant through
The rang'd syllables; but though she feels
No truth of truth within the throbbing line,
Nor knows the fire along the blood that steals
Of them who worship at the Muses' shrine,
Yet on a page eternal doth she write,
With steadfast labour of her hands and brain,
A Poem with all heavenly grace bedight
And far excelling every poet's strain,
Whose words are deeds of happy sacrifice
Which angels read with joy in Paradise.