Squelched creative power in the breast
Doth crave attention like a mourning child.
It worms its way into the very brain
Of every poet; fierce it is, and wild.
Though seeming in appearance like the rest,
The Poet's soul, untamable and free,
Commands attention with its sweet refrain
And says, "I will paint life as it should be."
For hilltops, at their best, are still but earth.
And mountains, truth be told, are only stone.
But in the Poet's vision are transformed,
And what He sees, the Poet sees alone,
Until He copies this, His master work,
And others see as He, the teacher, sees.
Then do the hilltops, mountains, take true form.
Without His light their truth could never be.