Too much of poet's sojourning With airy fancy captivating Eye and ear and every thing, Our sense false sense believing, 5 Can vault the real beyond our ken And all our wisdom, sum, and end Must be but to begin again. While in that cloud Delight suspended Nothing kills and all are mended, 10 The dead arise for a final bow As plays and players even now. If ever error finds this field Error must to mischief yield And all that seemed delight revealed 15 Be changed to vice reviled. No longer the innocence of If Where no blind run ends in a cliff And every dagger of thrown suppose Hits harmless as a falling rose. 20 No more mere pastimes of the mind Where every evil's undermined And the very devil's to sport inclined, Terror trumped by laughter half-divine, Where every blood-anointed sword 25 Shows no sharper than a pointy word, And each ghastly gambit of deed or cad Ends in misty triumph trimmed, And only surfeit seems enough.
From the collection "Nobody Poems"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.