ALL things can tempt me from this craft of verse:    
One time it was a woman’s face, or worse—    
The seeming needs of my fool—driven land;    
Now nothing but comes readier to the hand    
Than this accustomed toil. When I was young,
I had not given a penny for a song    
Did not the poet sing it with such airs    
That one believed he had a sword upstairs;    
Yet would be now, could I but have my wish,    
Colder and dumber and deafer than a fish.

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