What gossamer lures thee now? What hope, what name <br />Is on thy lips? What dreams to fruit have grown? <br />Thou who hast turned ONE Poet-heart to stone, <br />Is thine yet burning with its seraph flame? <br />Let me give back a warning of thine own, <br />That, falling from thee many moons ago, <br />Sank on my soul like the prophetic moan <br />Of some young Sibyl shadowing her own woe. <br />The words are thine, and will not do thee wrong, <br />I only bind their solemn charge to song. <br />Thy tread is on a quicksand -- oh! be wise! <br />Nor, in the passionate eagerness of youth, <br />MISTAKE THY BOSOM-SERPENT'S GLITTERING EYES <br />FOR THE CALM LIGHTS OF REASON AND OF TRUTH.<br /><br />Henry Timrod<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-12-2/
