. A poet!–He hath put his heart to school,
Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff
Which art hath lodged within his hand–must laugh
By precept only, and shed tears by rule.
Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff,
And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool,
In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool
Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph.
How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold?
Because the lovely little flower is free
Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold;
And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree
Comes not by casting in a formal mould,
But from its own divine vitality.
You May Also Like:
- The Morning Of The Day Appointed For A General Thanksgiving. January 18, 1816
- Composed After A Journey Across The Hambleton Hills, Yorkshire
- The White Doe Of Rylstone, Or, The Fate Of The Nortons – Dedication
- Tribute To The Memory Of The Same Dog
- The Martial Courage Of A Day Is Vain
- To The Same (John Dyer)
- Sonnet: It is not to be thought of that the Flood