WHEN POETRY, LOVELY, SPEAKS

When poetry, lovely, speaks,
No person dares to sigh,
Prose, if it whispers or shrieks,
Will not talk, will not even try.

When poetry does the talking
In a poem by Shelley or Keats,
No mortal breathes a breath,
Not even the lamb bleats.

From wooded hill or sky
Issues forth no sound,
Respect for the poem so great,
As when Jupiter once came down.

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