In youth I wrote a song so great,
I thought that, like a flaring taper,
’Twould shine abroad; and so it did,
To the four corners of the—paper.
And, poet, should you think your songs
Must, or even will, be read,
Bethink thee, friend, what fine springs rise
Impotently from the sea’s bed.
I marvelled at the speaker’s tongue,
And marvelled more as he unrolled it.