To thee, The Muse, I will try to aspire,
If you will deign to grant me strength and power
To imbue the words from me required
With Beauty, meaning; to induce desire
Within the souls of ignorants; this sire,
Whose history I’m here about to unfold
By means of means as yet not being told.
An artist was of great imaginary power,
Whom Beaty of the nature didst inspire
To depict th’ most common - most sublime;
Who in the azure pond pervaded to the brim
And strewn with water lilies to the rim
Did manage to express the utmost feeling
And the innermost of soul stirring
With canvas, easel and a swab of brush
In one prolongéd moment of blood rush
Could be compared, if not surpass,
To great Apollo chiseled in the brass;
Fortitude of madman did he has
To every season paint the same haystacks
From the same angle, point of view and place;
And in every sample show it’s grace
Of that uniqueness that he then beheld:
So through the canvas distinctly was smelled
The rich odor of rye so ripe and swelled
That it was hard desire to subdue
To pluck one spike and eagerly to chew
To feel this somehow bitter, somehow pleasant sap,
That not ‘fore long would plunge you into nap
In which you would descry either the dawning
So perfectly describéd in one drawing;
Or woman with a lad amidst the meadow
Under the parasol, or at the window
Pondering on something in her mind;
Or sky with water jointlessly aligned
So ‘tis impossible to  outline
To which domain each sphere is confined;
Or four lean poplars in one straight array,
Or two red boats at anchor at the bay;
The Lunch, The Cliff, The Magpie perched,
Another lilies  joyfully emerged
As if there is no other place for them
And everything pervaded with such phlegm
That ‘tis indeed so bitterly  to rise,
And in the distance to behold sunrise
Although comparable, but not the same
To that Which nature’s trying To surpass in vain.