Yet even here, so catching, are these things,
Something, I think, is going to be done.
For me, I would not anything were done,
But would for ever sit on this soft seat
Each sweet recurrent Saturday, and run
An idle pencil o'er the foolscap sheet,
The free unrationed blotting-pad, and scrawl
Delightful effigies of those who speak,
But not myself say anything at all,
Only be mute and beautiful and meek ...