Nature perplexed me with the rhymer’s curse
When the stars yawned upon my doubtful birth –
An itch to love, and scratch myself in verse
Was all the joy they promised me on earth;
Spenser wove a faery web; Sidney bowed
To fate and made his heart a stage to paint
The verities of fashion; Milton ploughed
Cathartic versions of a ruptured saint;
Mr Wordsworth made a case for passion.
Is there room left in the bed? Couldst thou blow
This trumpet into strains of animation?
When I speak will my words about your fancy go?
A clown must be forever more a clown
Unless he get himself a purple gown.