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To write a girl a sonnet,
To get a ring, or some such thing,
What is a poet's fame?
Sad hints about his reason, And sadder praise from garreteers, To be returned in season.
Where the poet's lines?.
go Answer, ye evening tapers! Ye auburn locks, ye golden curls, Speak from your folded papers!
Child of the ploughshare, smile;
Boy of the counter, grieve not, Though muses round thy trundle-bed Their broidered tissue weave not.
The poet's future holds
No civic wreath above him;
Nor slated roof, nor varnished chaise,
Maid of the village inn,
Who workest woe on satin, (The grass in black, the graves in green, The epitaph in Latin,)
Trust not to them who say
In stanzas, they adore thee; O rather sleep in church-yard clay, With urns and cherubs o'er thee!
BY A SENSITIVE MAN.
O THERE are times
When all this fret and tumult that we hear
Ding dong ding dong!
The world is in a simmer like a sea
From crib to shroud!
Nurse o'er our cradles screameth lullaby,
And friends in boots tramp round us as we die, Snuffling aloud.
At morning's call
The small-voiced pug-dog welcomes in the sun,
When evening dim
Draws round us, then the lonely caterwaul
Women, with tongues
Like polar needles, ever on the jar,
Men, plugless word-spouts, whose deep fountains are
Within their lungs.
Children, with drums
Strapped round them by the fond paternal ass,
Between their thumbs.
Vagrants, whose arts
Have caged some devil in their mad machine,
Which grinding, squeaks, with husky groans between, Come out by starts.
Cockneys that kill
Thin horses of a Sunday, -men, with clams, Hoarse as young bisons roaring for their dams From hill to hill.
Soldiers, with guns
Making a nuisance of the blessed air,
Storms, thunders, waves!
Howl, crash, and bellow till ye get your fill; Ye sometimes rest; men never can be still But in their graves.