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Love without hope, as when the young bird-catcher Swept off his tall hat to the Squire’s own daughter, So let the imprisoned larks escape and fly Singing about her head, as she rode by.

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This seems to me a philosophical question, and therefore irrelevant, question. A poet’s destiny is to love.
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This seems to me a philosophical question, and therefore irrelevant, question. A poet’s destiny is to love.
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The award of a pure gold medal for poetry would flatter the recipient unduly: no poem ever attains such carat purity.
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So when I’m killed, don’t wait for me, Walking the dim corridor; In Heaven or Hell, don’t wait for me, Or you must wait for evermore. You’ll find me buried, living-dead In these verses that you’ve read.
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This seems to me a philosophical question, and therefore irrelevant, question. A poet’s destiny is to love.
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