Ballad

Upon our corollary to
The ancient, humble harp
I sought a solitary string
'Twas neither flat nor sharp.

Extending towards the tensive coil
I plucked a simple strain
Whose melody was found to me,
So labored, crude, and plain,

From depths within my childhood,
Or recent reveries
And thus gleaned from my teaming brain
And played ungracefully.

--

I figured that before myself
Some countless bards had struck
Those notes in such an order that
The Gods despised each schmuck

Who thought he had discovered something
New and glorious,
When in the the stark and naked truth
Each to himself had less

Than the musician ere his time,
Who wasted his good gifts
By giving songs poorly built wings
Only to find them lift

Not on the grace of Apollo
But as rash Phaeton tried,
A noble striving for the sun
That ended with him fried.

--

So as I sound my modest song,
Aware of this, and meek
I pray that you will hear me play
And with a smile in your eyes
Make my heartsong unique.

July 1 to July 31