English poem
Oh many a time with Ovid have I borne
by David Gray (1836–1888)
Oh many a time with Ovid have I borne My father’s vain, yet well-meant reprimand, To leave the sweet-air’d, clover-purpled land Of rhyme—its Lares loftily forlorn, With all their pure humanities unworn— To batten on the bare Theologies! To quench a glory lighted at the skies, Fed on one essence with the silver morn, Were of all blasphemies the most insane. So deeplier given to the delicious spell I clung to thee, heart-soothing Poesy! Now on a sick-bed rack’d with arrowy pain I lift white hands of gratitude, and cry, Spirit of God in Milton! was it well?
More by David Gray
- O God, it is a terrible thing to die
- O thou of purer eyes than to behold
- O winter! wilt thou never, never go
- October’s gold is dim--the forests rot
- Oh, beautiful moon! Oh, beautiful moon! again
- Sometimes, when sunshine and blue sky prevail
- Sweetly, my mother! Go not yet away
- The daisy-flower is to the summer sweet