I would not paint—a picture—
I'd rather be the
One
It's bright impossibility
To dwell—delicious—on—
And wonder
how the fingers feel
Whose rare—celestial—stir—
Evokes so sweet a Torment—
Such sumptuous—Despair—
I would not talk, like Cornets—
I'd rather
be the One
Raised softly to the Ceilings—
And out, and easy on —
Through Villages of Ether—
Myself endued Balloon
By but a lip of Metal—
The pier to my Pontoon—
Nor would I be a Poet—
It's finer—own the
Ear—
Enamored—impotent—content—
The License to revere,
A privilege
so awful
What would the Dower be,
Had I the Art to stun myself
With
Bolts of Melody!
