A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw It was an Abyssinian maid And on her dulcimer she played Singing of Mount Abora Could I revive within me Her symphony and song To such a deep delight twould win me That with music loud and long I would build that dome in air That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice And close your eyes with holy dread For he on honeydew hath fed And drunk the milk of Paradise Im livin every day with the dead poets society Rioting inside my head, so it requires me To keep every word Ive read close beside me Inspiring me to never go quietly Im posturing like Im the offspring of Oscar Wilde The foster child of Geoffrey Chaucer now Hiphops the trial I face here, so I adopt the style But Ive got to make clear that since my eighth year Ive been possessed by Shakespeare and William Blakes spirits And still I wait to hear a voice like T.S. Elliots And Percy Shelley is the first to tell me just How to speak out of turn and keep my verse rebellious I read Keats and learn from a grecian urn How to reach eternity through the gyre where Yeats purns So I can meet Traherne, plus Im a freak like Burns With his twentysome children, though Im still a young pilgrim And Im buildin a temple from the skills my tongues yieldin So I feel like John Milton paradise is lost For the thrill Im John Skelton crossed with Wordsworth And my zeal is unwelcome in George Herberts church Im livin every day with the dead poets society Rioting inside my head, so it requires me To keep every word Ive read close beside me Inspiring me to never go quietly For a challenge Im known to approach talent shows with Poems that I stole from Edgar Allen Poes lips Opium hits dope Alexander Popes wits I was Samuel Coleridge in a trance when I wrote this And I awoke with the whole song done I felt the soul of John Donne Andrew Marvel Taught me to chase the sun I cant make it stand still So instead Ill make it run, with puns denser Than Edmund Spencers, and modern lyrics Modeled on Robert Herricks when I dispense words Its like a forge is firin, and Im strikin the iron Inspired by Lord Byron when Im writin the Siren Song evidence of desire went wrong And lost innocence my memorys gone In a sense, Tennyson has been reborn In a form with the fingerprints of Henry Vaughn Im livin every day with the dead poets society Rioting inside my head, so it requires me To keep every word Ive read close beside me Inspiring me to never go quietly As a poet Im conscious of the goals I accomplish That I owe to accomplices, and when Im feelin honest My conscience bids me to admit to stealin sonnet Styles from Philip Sydney Im fulfillin a promise I gave Dylon Thomas to rage against the dyin Of light Im like Adonis Im still a novice But I already got the skills to thrill a Goddess Or start a riot in the heart thats why its pounding Im Thomas Wyatts foundling on Ezra Pounds wings I fly, quietly grounding my weight on the pasts crutches Im Robert Browning, and this rap is My Last Dutchess Im puttin the last touches on the way its sounding In strange surroundings my grasp clutches For balance I spin words, recalling how fast structures Fell and splintered at my feet like Alan Ginsberg Thats how Im ensured power of speech, and now Ive been heard Im livin every day with the dead poets society Rioting inside my head, so it requires me To keep every word Ive read close beside me Inspiring me to never go quietly Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments... Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so... In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes On what wings dare he aspire What the hand dare seize the fire... As holy and enchanted As er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon lover... Whod stoop to blame this sort of trifling Even had you skill in speech, which I have not... Well those passions read, which yet survive Stamped on these lifeless things... To whom thou sayest Beauty is Truth Truth Beauty, that is all ye know on earth And all ye need to know Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball And tear our pleasures with rough strife Through the iron gates of life Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run
quietly, rioting, requires, inspiring, poet