But how can he expect that others should
Build for him, sow for him, and at his call
Love him, who for himself will take no care at all?
"I thought of Chatterton, the marvelous boy.
The sleepless soul that perished in his pride;
Of him who walked in glory and in joy,
Following his plough along the mountain side.
By our own spirits are we deified:
We poets in our youth begin in gladness,
But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness."