Real Poetry has magic to ignite
the lamp by which the lost and luckless heart
can learn to turn despair into delight.
It's shameful, men won't consecrate this art
and shun the modern doggerel as vain
and sappy pointless slobber fit for fools.
To champion sacred rights of the Inane
is same as serving gravel up with jewels.
Poetic song has horn to wake the dead
with rousing calls to rise against the Grave,
re-smithing men for which their souls were bred;
to rise candescently, and free the slave.
Drawn free from thorns, men have read verse to shape
new inner wings, to rise above the ape.