Time’s Pauper

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Time’s Pauper

Sonnet-An Invocation to the Master #260

Oh what could I ever bring from fallen spheres,
From this clay-fostered form a fit offering
Is hardly known even by long diligent seekings,
Wherefore dost Thou demand of me high living?

Behold this vacillating heart moved by every hue
And mind that doth bend like a feeble reed,
Thought that never the inevitable Truth knew
Are the ill-wrought parts by which am made.

Ask of me what my human will can grasp,
Makings of lowly time that to mediocrity inclines,
The shallow words strung to an ode’s shape
Or poem formed like an old citadel’s broken columns.

Oh, am but time’s pauper, bankrupted by the silent soul,
The bodily residue is all I can offer Thee whole.