--My poet the rose of his fancies
Wrought unwritten in verse,
And left but the lilies and pansies
To strew his early hearse.
--The master-dream of your poet
Has perished for ever then?
--What know we? Should we know it
If it were born again?
Thomas MacDonagh
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-poet-3/
