Page:Songs of a Savoyard.djvu/141



HAT time the poet hath hymned The writhing maid, lithe-limbed, Quivering on amaranthine asphodel, How can he paint her woes, Knowing, as well he knows,
 * That all can be set right with calomel?

When from the poet's plinth The amorous colocynth
 * Yearns for the aloe, faint with rapturous thrills,

How can he hymn their throes Knowing, as well he knows,
 * That they are only uncompounded pills?

Is it, and can it be, Nature hath this decree,
 * Nothing poetic in the world shall dwell?

Or that in all her works Something poetic lurks,
 * Even in colocynth and calomel?