Colloquy With Tennyson

A muse's conversation, with the great Lord Tennyson.

Stately, are those magnificent words of Ulysses,
Whose luminous stanzas of that sublime poetry,
Are immortalis'd with the exalt'd lore of genuises,
By the old mortals who revere this infinite artistry.
Quoth Tennyson.

O Tenysson, I hanker thy daring passion amain, 
To rid myself of this brume of tenebrous doubt,
For I grow weary of days of gloom that remain,
In the restless vagary that naysayers shall tout.
Quoth the muse.

Hark! The splendid voice of vim and verve anon,
That shall inspire thee through a bare vicissitude,
To enlighten the quintessence of thy quill thereon,
And begone, that wretch'd unnecessary solicitude.
Quoth Tennyson.

I shall indeed heed therefore words of reason anew,
And infamous shall be the glory of my final surcease,
When I perish onto a pantheism of the barmicidal few,
As my poetry shall live on after my poems have cease.
Quoth the muse.

Remember the countenance of Ulysses the idle king,
Who strove, sought, found and ne'er had truly yield'd,
To the tempest of his anguish and the hymn we sing,
Before the eternal grandeur of excellence that wield'd.
Quoth Tennyson.

I shall follow a dream of the pantheism of bards then,
As the beacon of hope I shall see while in Ithaca soon,
Where Plato, Aristocles, Soctrates inspire sundry men,
Beneath that serendipity radiating from the full moon,
Quoth the muse.