On A Pen
A REED was I:—my thin and fruitless shape
No fig put forth, no apple, not a grape:
When, lo! one took me, polished me, gave lips
Of slender point, and made me take small sips
Of some strange, black, and Heliconian wine;
Since when, as though I were a thing divine,
Drink puts all speech in this dumb mouth of mine.
No fig put forth, no apple, not a grape:
When, lo! one took me, polished me, gave lips
Of slender point, and made me take small sips
Of some strange, black, and Heliconian wine;
Since when, as though I were a thing divine,
Drink puts all speech in this dumb mouth of mine.
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