This was a Poet—
It is that
Distills amazing sense
From ordinary
Meanings,
And attars 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.