i

come to me
like winged dryads
and lift my prostrate soul
to heights untrodden

adrift with clouds
     of unstarry skies
                         windblown to rainbows
                            without pots of gold

between
the uncheckered intermission
of shade and light
come to me

ii

to elysian fields he roams
gazing at the threshold of beauty
basking at the fountainhead of truth
nutritious viands that feed the soul

empyreal heights                      
laurel wreaths                  
meridian sunshine  
       of nectared sweets
               witchery of words
                     full blaze of glory
                                               poesy's gorgeous kubla khan

then all vanishes
like dreams
like streaks of shooting stars
like enchanted fairyland
. . . he is a poet