THE poet stoops and plucks a little flower
To tell his greatness in a simple song;
He does not need through seasons to prolong
A mighty work to manifest his power;
Which still is simple, still the common dower
If unexpressed, of many in the throng
Unconscious who, with poetry along,
In life's sojourn spend many a happy hour.
So Burns delights us with a lowly lay,
The warm expression of a simple joy;
So Wordsworth, moving through each quiet day,
Forgets not the quick impulse of the boy;
And midst thy passion, Shelley, to destroy,
Thou 'st found the truth along the lyric way.