By seeking inspiration from the greater dead.
"And yet in me
A pulse is never stirred by what they sing:
The reason I know not, unless it be
Their idylls are not Idylls of the King.
"You smile: no doubt
You think I've never learned to criticise.
Perhaps so, yet I feel that which I speak about.
And Enim is the last! Well, no more sighs;
"For spring is here: