Poesie of Myself

Age he loved and age he aspied

Not tender youth no boyish destinie

Of spent and wasted energie

But heroic age, that youth is much denied

Sailing he loved and horses to train

Mastering them both ; having ropes of boat and maine

Stationed at his commanding seat

He ‘joied the sport where lances meet

Competitive in spirit as in sport, writing

Was his subject, living his art

When sport holidaied and work was the hour

Poesies were his arms and the stage his eyrie tower

To conquer the world with a book and shake the stage

No loftier dream had he, nor clearer destinie

E’en in love he held his rank

And loves where he most esteemed

On every word he passed, Cupid’s wing would carry it

Arrow-tipped and perfumed, eache phrase and wit

That should leave his mouth

As though like the breath we see in winter

Ne’er so much he enjoued as love and his amourous play

And with gentle hearts and shapes he spent many passing day

In time of pleasure and pasttime

His time was past in thoughtful wise

Seeking inspiration’s harp and melodie

And the song of the wise and history

For nought yet but Art stole his passion

To dedicate his life in this life’s fashion

Yet close to the world no fever he held,

Like architecture, nor object roused his self,

his very image he saw in architects aligned,

In their creative activity and inspired design

This his mark would be if his mark was not the word

Thou destinie had thus embraced his life

Yet architecture, his mistress, the word, still yet his wife



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