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—

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