Seeds in the Air: For an Album

Could I hit on a theme To fashion my verse on, Not long would I seem A lack-courtesy person. But I have not the skill, Nor talisman strong, To summon at will The Spirit of song.— Bright thoughts are roaming Unseen in the air; Like comets, their coming Is sudden and rare. They strike, and they enter, And light up the brain, Which thrills to its centre With rapturous pain. Where the chance-seed Is piously nursed, Brighter succeed In the path of the first.— One sighs to the Muse, Or the sweet nightingale, One sips the night-dews Which moon-beams exhale. All this is a fiction; I never could find A suitable friction To frenzy my mind. What use are empirics? No gas on their shelf Can make one spout lyrics In spite of oneself!