GOD makes a poet: touches soul and sight,
And lips and heart, and sends him forth to sing;
His fellows hearing, own the true birthright,
And crown him daily with the love they bring.

The king a lord makes, by a parchment leaf;
Though heart be withered, and though sight be dim
With dullard brain and soul of disbelief—
Ay, even so; he makes a lord of him.

What, then, of one divinely kissed and sent
To fill the people with ideal words,
Who with his poet's crown is discontent,
And begs a parchment title with the lords?