The summer sun torches this April afternoon
And from his zenith proclaims, the nadir of my soul.
Divine arsonist! Cook my steaming hide!
Flay it! Wring it! And hang it out to dry!
Formidable meridian furious, raging blind!
Wash, white light, this empty vessel of mine.
Like Milton’s vacant sockets, deprived of sight,
Ignite this hollow with the flames of Paradise!
Torrid torment, come hither! Embrace me brother!
Plumb my oppressed well, its dark liquor
Boil, and distil to my quavering pen. Shake
My hand, Goldfinger! Scrawl your art on my humble scrap!
Alas, foul these rays, ablaze with heat,
But of vision bereft. Like Milton’s unblessed eyes
And deaf Beethoven, of genius shorn! Frugal
Faculties aflutter, on passion’s empty bluster.
Sun, eclipse my trance, stint your shine!
Or else plunge deeper, into this wasted mine
And drain me dry, have your fill, of my rancid wine.
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