Thus I wrote in London, musing on my betters,
Poets dead and gone: and lo, the critics cried,
" Out on such a boast!" — as if I dreamed that fetters
Binding Dante, bind up — me! as if true pride
Were not also humble!
So I smiled and sighed
As I oped your book in Venice this bright morning,
Sweet new friend of mine! and felt the clay or sand
— Whatsoe'er my soil be, — break — for praise or scorning —
Out in grateful fancies — weeds, but weeds expand
Almost into flowers — held by such a kindly hand!