A little bit of Byron lies in me,
A brooding young man with morbid despair,
Whose moods switch so quick, like of the vast sea,
While I stand beside the rocks, winds through my hair.

A bit of Shelley flows inside my pen,
A burning rebel in my father's land,
Not understood or felt by common men,
Where ultimate ideals I do demand.

A lot of Keats sings and dances in me,
Summer airs, nightingales, everything old,
Escaping my pain on wings of poesy,
As he, my broken bard-brother has told.

I read and read and found myself in all,
And so did find myself through my heart's call.