Fancy might now her silken pinions try
To rise from earth, and sweep th' expanse on high:
From Tithon's bed now might Aurora rise,
Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dies,
While a pure stream of light o'erflows the skies.
The monarch of the day I might behold,
And all the mountains tipt with radiant gold,
But I reluctant leave the pleasing views,
Which Fancy dresses to delight the Muse;
Winter austere forbids me to aspire,
And northern tempests damp the rising fire;
They chill the tides of Fancy's flowing sea,
Cease then, my song, cease the unequal lay.
“Lay” = song, “unequal” = inadequate to the poet’s task of representing and reimagining the world. Wheatley “reluctant[ly]” puts down her pen, claiming that bad winter weather (possibly literal, but probably also a metaphor for her emotional state) has “damped” her powers of imagination.
On Imagination