Who would not be a poet - to seclude
Himself in a bright, starry solitude,
Away from earthly wretchedness, at will;
Where no unlovely thing might present be,
To dim the light of ideality,
And Nature's glories might surround him still?
Who would not be a poet - to be blest
With the rich thoughts which they in words have drest:
To feel the fire of their undying hopes,
To see all beauty with their gifted sight,
To hang o'er Byron's, Campbell's, Milton's, Pope's,
And Spencer's page, with their divine delight?
Who would not e'n a poet's woes possess,
T' inherit that wild power which beautifies distress?
First published in Australasian Chronicle, 1 June 1841
