  Whoever reads a poet’s rhyme To find the poet there, Might equally essay to climb To castles in the air. He lives not in reality, Or rather, lives too much. He makes a forest of a tree, A palace of a hutch. To-day a transient pang appears His life’s eternal sorrow, But he is laughing through his tears And full of joy to-morrow. For if there’s oft a germ of truth, The flower is fancy’s own. ’Tis the world’s heart he shows, in sooth, And his is still unknown. And sometimes in his happiest days, Without excuse or cause, He pens the mournfullest of lays, To win the world’s applause. And from the saddest heart, at times, The merriest stanzas flow. Friend, think not by the poet’s rhymes The poet’s heart to know. |
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