If I had wings and poet’s skill,
a muse at hand and time to kill,
I’d scribe, for you, such noble verses
about the beauty Nature nurses
inside a bud, on bough with leaf,
where wonder is the main motif.

I’d take my pen, like Bard with quill,
pour forth a stream, sublime and still.
Place pleasant poem on the page,
a song of love that would not age,
sedate as moon or starry host,
or sea that creeps along the coast.

If Iines would gleam like dew at dawn,
lay down, like jewels, on leafy lawn.
They'd sparkle with the muse’s magic,
rewrite as tear-less truth the tragic:
have Hector and Achilles yield,
bid both lay down their sword and shield!

If I composed like kindly Keats,
wrote rhymes where earth and heaven meets,
my poems would be less pedantic;
they’d bloom like rustic rose, romantic.
Then I would be a poet true
and I would touch the heart of you!