Was it the proud full sail of his great verse...
Sonnet 86Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you, That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse, Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew? Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead? No, neither he, nor his compeers by night Giving him aid, my verse astonished. He, nor that affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence As victors of my silence cannot boast; I was not sick of any fear from thence: But when your countenance fill'd up his line, Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine. Buy and Download...Click HERE
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Perhaps it was because his poetry’s like a huge ship and, heading straight for the great prize that you are, he crushed any artistic thought I had right back there into the silence of my mind before I had time to write them down. Or perhaps it was his sheer
brilliance that bowled me over. No, it wasn’t him (or any of those others sneaking in to help him) that shut me up. Neither he nor that shadowy friend of his who comes every so he can crib his work, can boast that they conquered me. It wasn’t them. It was when you paid attention to his work that my writing started to droop.