Nor grudged grim Death his toll of tears.
"What can a modern poet sing,
Describe, imagine or invent?
They've been before, they've tapped the spring,
They've laid their hands on everything,
Staked out the spacious firmament.
"Last week, a line that did me proud
Flashed on me, strolling down the Strand:—
'I wandered lonely as a cloud;'
Then conscience suddenly avowed