We poets pride ourselves on what
  We feel, and not what we achieve;
The world may call our children fools,
  Enough for us that we conceive.
A little wren that loves the grass
Can be as proud as any lark
  That tumbles in a cloudless sky,
Up near the sun, till he becomes
  The apple of that shining eye.

So, lady, I would never dare
  To hear your music ev'ry day;
With those great bursts that send my nerves
  In waves to pound my heart away;
And those small notes that run like mice
Bewitched by light; else on those keys -
  My tombs of song-you should engrave:
'My music, stronger than his own,
  Has made this poet my dumb slave.'