Had swamped the sacred poets with themselves."—Tennyson.]
"The poets of an older time,"
Grumbled Rossetti Jones one day,
"Have used up every blessed rhyme
And collared every thought sublime,
Leaving us nothing new to say.
"They've sung the Game of War as played
By gods and men, heroic peers;
They've sung the love of man and maid,
To Life their laughing tribute paid,