And on them to the death men’s brows are knit.
Ye men! ye critics! seems’t so very fit
They on a storm of Laughter should be blown
O’er the world’s edge to Limbo? Be it known,
Ye men! ye critics! that beneath the sun
The chiefest woe is this,—when all alone,
And strong as life, a soul’s great currents run
Poesy-ward, like rivers to the sea,
But never reach’t. Critic, let that soul moan
In its own hell, without a kick from thee.