These shapeless
sounds, which form upon my tongue
And find their
anchor deep in seedless ground,
Are not from
concord or consensus sprung.
So often are
the muses’ praises sung,
As if by their
preserve are poised and wound
These shapeless
sounds, which form upon my tongue
And die before
their age. They’re duly wrung
inchoately, so
these defiant sounds
Are not from
concord or consensus sprung,
But voiced from
gasconade‘s amoral lung.
False witnesses
have seen me stoop to crown
These shapeless
sounds, which form upon my tongue
In nothing more
than Sommer’s motley strung.
Such words which
I by dogmatism have bound
Are not from
concord or consensus sprung,
Though may be
found on fervour’s hat-rack hung.
And by this simple
sentiment be found,
These shapeless
sounds which form upon my tongue
Are not from
concord or consensus sprung.
