Farewell to Poetry

Come, fallen angel, and your pink wings close; Doff your white robe, your rays that gild the skies; You must—from heaven, where once you used to rise— Streak, like a shooting star, fall into prose. Your bird’s feet now must strike an earthly pose. It is no time to fly: walk! Lock your prize— Your harp’s fair harmonies—in resting wise, Within your heart: vain, worthless treasures those! Poor child of heaven, but vainly would you sing: To them your tongue divine means not a thing! Their ear is closed to your sweet chords! But this I beg: O blue-eyed angel, first, before You leave, find my pale love, whom I adore, And give her brow one long, last farewell kiss.