The poets of old Each with his pen of gold Gloriously writing Found no need for fighting, In common being so rich; None need take the ditch, Unless this Chaucer beats That Chaucer, or this Keats With other Keats is flyting: See Donne deny Donne’s feats, Shelley take Shelley down, Blake snatch at his own crown. Without comparison aiming high, Watching with no jealous eye, A neighbour’s renown, Each in his time contended But with a mood late ended, Some manner now put by, Or force expended, Sinking a new well when the old ran dry. So, like my masters, I Voice my ambition loud, In prospect proud, Treading the poet’s road, In retrospect most humble For I stumble and tumble, I spill my load. But often half-way to sleep, On a mountain shagged and steep, The sudden moment on me comes With terrible roll of dream drums, Reverberations, cymbals, horns replying, When with standards flying, A cloud of horsemen behind, The coloured pomps unwind The Carnival wagons With their saints and their dragons On the screen of my teeming mind, The _Creation_ and _Flood_ With our Saviour’s Blood And fat Silenus’ flagons, With every rare beast From the South and East, Both greatest and least, On and on, In endless variable procession. I stand on the top rungs Of a ladder reared in the air And I speak with strange tongues So the crowds murmur and stare, Then volleys again the blare Of horns, and Summer flowers Fly scattering in showers, And the Sun rolls in the sky, While the drums thumping by Proclaim me.... Oh then, when I wake Could I recovering take And propose on this page The words of my rage And my blandishing speech Steadfast and sage, Could I stretch and reach The flowers and the ripe fruit Laid out at the ladder’s foot, Could I rip a silken shred From the banner tossed ahead, Could I call a double flam From the drums, could the Goat Horned with gold, could the Ram With a flank like a barn-door The dwarf and blackamoor, Could _Jonah and the Whale_ And the _Holy Grail_ With the “_Sacking of Rome_” And “_Lot at his home_” The Ape with his platter, Going clitter-clatter, The Nymphs and the Satyr, And every other such matter Come before me here Standing and speaking clear With a “how do ye do?” And “who are ye, who?” Could I show them to you That you saw them with me, Oh then, then I could be The Prince of all Poetry With never a peer, Seeing my way so clear To unveil mystery.