The Poets They, like all creatures, being madeFor the shovel and worm,Ransacked their perishable minds and foundPattern and formAnd with their own hands quarried from hard wordsA figure in which secret things confide.They are abroad: their spirits like a prideOf lions circulate,Are desperate, just as the jewelled beast,That lion constellate,Whose scenery is Betelgeuse and Mars,Hunts …
