Could there be Dear Imagery
Site or sound that could ever be
Present without minds capturing
The essence of sweet poetry?

And yet, 'tis dismal irony
That breathes such life from misery
And spins on canvas words of gold
Transcending time to ages old.

With Wheatly's pen the symbols sound
Where rhythm of life's melodies abound
Pleading angelic praise be sent
To writers willed with Heaven's intent.

Bare all thy soul, a fool's voice cries,
That taunting thoughts be not denied.
Like seas that beakon sailors hearts,
The poet's burning fury starts.