Through pity for the world I scarcely feel
Great poetry to have a charm for me:
From thought am I called off by crowds that reel
Along the frozen streets in penury:
The infant with its soft and chilly hands
Seeks nourishment amid dishonouring rags;
The pauper man in desolation stands: —
And this increases so, the soul it drags
From meditating in the fair domain
Of all the glorious past of thought and man
My heart is down; my pinions strive in vain;
Great poetry not now their plumes will fan.
Ah, who can glory in poetic pages,
Where life with want its bitter battle wages?