FICTION ! Poetry
Lives but by truth. Truth is its heart. Bards write
The life of soul — the only life. Each line
Breathes life — or nothing. Fiction! Who narrates
The stature of a man, his gait, his dress,
The colour of his hair, what meats he loved,
Where he abode, what were his favourite haunts
His place and time of birth, his age at death,
And how much crape and cambric mourned his end —
Writes a biography ! But who records
The yearnings of the heart, its joys, and pangs,
Its alternating apathy, and hope,
Its stores of memory which the richer grow
The longer they are hived, its faith that stands
Upon the grave, and counts it as a beach
Whence souls embark for home, its prayers for man,
Its trust in Heaven, despite of man — writes fiction!
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