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The maid of poesy,
Dancing her way intoxicating,
On her head carrying
The pitcher burnished gold,
Of emotions eternal and feelings sublime,
Degrade her not,
To carry garbage heaps,
The stench whereof,
Shall smoother her to death.
Nor shall one make her
Sing songs saccharic,
Or songs born of meanness and hatred great,
All shall but let her dance to rhymes of ecstasy.
Revels she in celebrations,
Of victories great and of valours singular,
Victories of good over evil,
Of beauties celestial,
Of distilled essence of truth,
Or of pangs of gashes suffered by soul,
By Time’s sickle inevitable,
I pray to you all,
Make her not a vehicle
Of publicity or expression of ideas cheap,
That enrich her not but make her poorer,
To make her stand the test of Time,
Let her follow the path ideal. |
