To Byron, Shelley, Keats

When I behold those antique written rhymes
—The majesty and beauty of their sighs,
Divine and boundless vision of their eyes,
Eternal verse not bound by mortal times—
And view some glimpse of endless grace, sometimes
I shrink, diminish, hide these worthless eyes
That, dreaming, once had hoped their verse to rise
Among those ageless odes and beauteous chimes.
But I hold now— in heart, in mind, in soul—
Some raging words that cannot find their ink
Nor speak with actions, silenced by some plight.
My quiet ramblings cease, they are not whole.
Those silent words—cannot their speaker think?
They sink again and vanish from Their sight.