For I am of your nation, too,
The poet is the beggars’ king.
You playthings of the copper’s mace,
You toys of wind and rain and dew,
You whom the yelping watchdogs chase,
Whom blows and noisome ills pursue,
Whose paltry rags the wind strikes through
As through some rotten paper thing,
To whom nor want nor woe is new,
The poet is the beggars’ king.