I would not paint’—a picture’—
I’d rather be the One
Its bright impossibility
To dwell’—delicious’—on’—
And wonder how the fingers feel
Whose rare’—celestial’—stir’—
Evokes so sweet a Torment’—
Such sumptuous’—Despair’—
I would not talk, like Cornets’—
I’d rather be the One
Raised softly to the Ceilings’—
And out, and easy on’—
Through Villages of Ether’—
Myself endued Balloon
By but a lip of Metal’—
The pier to my Pontoon’—
Nor would I be a Poet’—
It’s finer’—own the Ear’—
The License to revere,
A privilege so awful
What would the Dower be,
Had I the Art to stun myself
With Bolts of Melody!

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