I take this hour or so to muse and mull,
Consulting with such spirits as attend
Upon contemplatives, making less dull
Their brains, extending what they comprehend.
Nor is such seeming magic to be scorned,
Though ours be such an analytic age;
Indeed the lack of magic should be mourned
When each of us contains a latent mage.
The genii in our bottle lies asleep
So long as we deny its very being;
This daimon in the rough is buried deep
Within our souls, now blind without its seeing.
For you to spy what’s lurking down your well,
It simply takes this sitting for a spell.