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Who says that
fictions only and false hair
Become a verse? Is there
in truth no beauty?
Is all good structure in a
winding stair?
May no lines pass, except they do
their duty
Not to a true, but painted chair?
Is it
no verse, except enchanted groves
And sudden arbours
shadow coarse-spun lines?
Must purling streams
refresh a lover's loves?
Must all be veiled, while he
that reads divines,
Catching the sense at two
removes?
Shepherds are honest people: let them sing:
Riddle who list, for me, and pull for prime:
I envy
no man's nightingale or spring;
Nor let them punish
me with loss of rhyme,
Who plainly say, My God, My
King.
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