Tuesday, August 15, 2017


                 He’d view on his imagination’s stage,
                 While fondling his earlobe and his quill,
                 The scenes that he’d transcribe upon his page:
                  Sometimes in stately or colloquial prose,
                  Then rising into cadences of verse
                  That with a captivating ardor flows
                  As only his true genius might disburse,
                  One whose fervent imagination could
                  Inhabit sensibilities of all
                  His sundry characters, wicked or good,
                  A feat that every rival would appall,
                       Which leaves me now abashed, though reverent,
                       Supposing such a talent heaven sent.