What child is this who gives such voice to lines
with gilded palette ‘rouses hearts of men
wherein no painted ray of heaven shines
a glowing precious stain flows from his pen?
The words sublime in foolish alchemy
they alter not the underlying lead
no catalyst was pride e’er meant to be
from this reaction gold is left unmade.
So unfilled coffers stay this royal son’s
locked in that empty state lest he repent
for giving mind, recast as noted sum
a priceless coin the mouth in hubris spent.
How speaks a poet, forging tainted reams
from faded foil concealing humble seams?


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