THOU hoarse Aristophanic mime,
Grotesque Silenus of the slime,
That dar'st to lift a comic voice
Where thrushes worship and rejoice,

When I would build, apart from space,
A simple shrine with simple grace,
And lift the walls and arches there
Of all that's high-distilled and fair,

God knows, who is the architect
Of all I summon and reject,
Thy mask is there, and with the choir
Thy hoary bass-note will aspire.