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Byron as an embryo, |
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behold the unborn Byron grow. |
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His budding brain grows ears and eyes. |
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Soon he swells to twice his size. |
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He drinks in with his mother's blood |
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a subtle, philosophic food |
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distilled from that good woman's sense |
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a strong poetic influence. |
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She calls him and he answers back, |
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from the amniotic sac: (he says) |
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"Spread the word, tomorrow morn |
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a future poet shall be born. |
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From my mother I shall fall |
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into the womb that holds us all. |
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My life shall be a meteor |
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which generations shall adore. |
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For my unbuttoned liberty |
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the unborn will remember me." |
