448
This was a Poet—It is That
Distills amazing sense
From ordinary Meanings
And Attar so immense
From the familiar species
That perished by the Door
We wonder it was not Ourselves
Arrested it—before
Of Pictures, the Discloser
The Poet—it is He
Entitles Us—by Contrast
To ceaseless Poverty
Of portion—so unconscious
The Robbing—could not harm
Himself—to Him—a Fortune
Exterior—to Time