This great and good can make the world anew
With words that fill our void with joy and faith.
A pure conceit to tear the world apart,
Remake it strong, remake it true, and now
And then the words will bond this group to tasks
That hold them on a course to distant planes.
To depths and heights and far beyond our ken,
To fire and frost that burns our frozen bones
And chains us to the chant of fearful nights,
A grip of unknowing moments ahead.
To be so blind to all the sights within
Will make that fear drown us in liquid dread
That fills our lungs and strip us of our verve
And keep us locked in cyclic loops afraid.
So hold my hand, good poets true and bold,
So I can feel your bravery myself
And cast aside the doubt and shameful grip
That crushes me to conscious vanquished doom.
Richard Lovelace, English poet, was born today in 1617.