Quit the hut, frequent the palace,
Reck not what the people say;
For still, where'er the trees grow biggest,
Huntsmen find the easiest way.
POET
Ever the Poet from the land
Steers his bark and trims his sail;
Right out to sea his courses stand,
New worlds to find in pinnace frail.
POET
To clothe the fiery thought
In simple words succeeds,
For still the craft of genius is
To mask a king in weeds.