THE POET’S TASK
What poet now would ever dare
To sing an ode to morning air
The rosy mist that hovers there
O’er sea-girt folds?
What mind could ever fully grasp
The magnitude of such a task
To frame in verses built to last
Vapors of gold?
Perhaps some master’s careful brush
Could set in oil the heart’s full rush -
Here and there a windswept bush -
With well-mixed hue.
But how could we with words sing praise
And capture this ambrosial haze
To place on page for later days
This heavenly view?
Most assume in ancient time
Some poet placed a fatted chine
Upon Aurora’s hillside shrine
None now could equal.
So the theme of their refrain
Will tend to be one more mundane
Who among them still would deign
To pen a sequel?
Poets! To her shrine turn back
Place steps of rhyme down the chalk track
And do not worry if you lack
A perfect gift.
For when we see the rosy glow
We will be comforted to know
We’re not the first to see the show
As sea mists lift.