Classic Poem

( AT THE TATE GALLERY )

Into warm regions of Romance I stared:
Sat down; produced my note-book, and prepared
To fabricate iambics: something rich,
Serene, perpetual; tuned to concert-pitch:
Carthage without the climax; autumn-gold;
Red sunrise on a crag-set-castle . . . Bold
With pursuance of the encharioted Sublime,
I set my brains to work till closing-time.

Words failed me: Dido's harbour was a gleam
That vanished in white vapours: and the Garden
Of the Hesperides was but a dream
Shut in by storm-clad summits. On my toes
A mild enthusiast trod; and begged my pardon.
I bit my pencil; blinked; and blew my nose.

In canvases like these one ought to find
Imaginative moments; yet my mind
Jibs from their glory. Mellow rhymes with yellow;
And Turner was a wonder-working fellow:
But he forbids creation; fails to start
Co-ordinated memories . . . Now my heart
Leaps toward Romance and knows it, standing there
In that calm student with the red-brown hair,
Copying The Death of Chatterton with care
And missing all the magic. That young head
Is life, the unending challenge . . . Turner's dead.