WE poets are not as other men,
But cast in a different mould, -
By sparkling beck o'er weary wold
Till it hide it in furzy fen,
We stray, and straying muse, what time
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Birds make music and poets make rhyme.
In sunny shallow grow mild marsh-mallow
And crispy cress and fiery flag;
The slight stream rests at foot o' the crag
Like panting dame after valse or galop,
While courteous breezes vainly seek
To fan the bloom from her shell-hued cheek.
I am a poet! I tell you true,-
The very saying doth make me so;
Maketh me poet (as poets go),
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Appleton Chapel.
