On cushioned leather, gently he sits warm;
The window pane faces outside a stirring storm,
Slashed by the whip of rain; protected and cosy
And on imaginative waves, he set sail for Poesy;
Ravelling loose the canvas towards the sky.
With puffy cheeks heavy clouds shed tears,
They grieve wailing cries of moan to tremble ears.
Lightning flashes their woes within his eye,
While Nature's war rages with immense force on high.

Walls built from grimy hands, mother his being;
And with clever mind radiates, heating his breathing.
Ruled by ferocity the wind reveals cold night,
But with tuneful company, his fire burns bright
Miles from the poverty of a starving child,
Which suffers the chilly bite too often; bitter hunger
Greets no fresh grain. Releasing strikes of thunder,
The storm brews the air savage and wild;
At that moment he was well-aware Fortune on him smiled.

So, safe, he stroked the lyre, and with chaos outside
Creating swirling motions of a rodeos hectic ride,
His muses appear, gifting comfort with song; snug
And peaceful, their tender beats, present a loving hug
Which to his soul, stretches far away from harm.
Swiftly his notes return with pace, showing illusion
That duly-matches the flaming intensity of the sun,
When it gallops heaven, in handsome charm,
Bringing with it, searing light, no fear for any alarm.

His gentle maids move him, but weak was his heart,
Deep within his breast, sweet tunes told of Loves art;
No matter where you reside human trouble exists.
Standing close by, a figure as real as Styx's mists,
Touches his neck; he feels stench Ignorance's creep.
Down his spine, all over, upon his shoulders
Add to strong weight, mimicking the boulders,
Which must be pushed aloft on ridges steep
On mount Purgatory; and finally th' storm makes him weep.