To Poets

[ZaunköniG]

To Poets


You , the choice minions of the proud-lipt Nine
Who warble at the great Apollo's knee,
Why do you laugh at these rude lays of mine?
I seek not of your brotherhood to be! —

I do not play the public swan, nor try
To curve my proud neck on your vocal streams;
In my own little isle retreated, I
Lose myself in my waters and my dreams.

Forgetful of the world, — forgotten too! —
The cygnet of my own secluded wave,
I sing, whilst, dashing up their silver dew
For joy, the petty billows try to rave:

There is a still applause in solitude
Fitting alike my merits and my mood.