“Where’s the need of singing now?”--
Smooth your brow,
Momus, and be reconciled,
For King Kronos is a child--
Child and father,
Or god rather,
And all gods are wild.
“Who reads Byron any more?”--
Shut the door,
Momus, for I feel a draught;
Shut it quick, for some one laughed.--
“What’s become of
Browning? Some of
Wordsworth lumbers like a raft?
“What are poets to find here?”--
Have no fear:
When the stars are shining blue
There will yet be left a few
Themes availing--
And these failing,
Momus, there’ll be you.