Copper Sun (Cullen)/The Poet
The Poet
LEST any forward thought intrudeOf death and desolation,Upon a mind shaped but to broodOn wonder and creation,He keeps an unremittent feudAgainst such usurpation.
His ears are tuned to all sharp criesOf travail and complaining,His vision stalks a new moon’s riseIn every old moon’s waning,And in his heart pride’s red flag fliesToo high for sorrow’s gaining.
Thus militant, with sword in hand,His battle shout renewing,He feels all faith affords is planned,As seeds, for rich accruing;Death ties no knot too gordianedFor his deft hands’ undoing.