Classic Poem

Too happy poet! true it is indeed
That I am jealous of thee. Bright blue eyes
(Half eye half heaven) look up into thy face
From Tuscan bonnet of such sunny straw,
In wonderment . . Glorious is poetry;
But give me pretty girls, give youth, give joy;
If not my youth, another's; not my joy,
Then too another's. I, alas! have lost
My quailpipe: I must not approach thy marsh,
To lift the yellow goslings off the ground
And warm them in my bosom with my breath.
Sorely this vexes me; not all thy wares.
I have mill'd verses somewhat solider
And rounder and more ringing: what of that?
Meanwhile the bevy flutters home again,
And thou canst blandly lower thy head to one,
Murmuring the sonnet, whispering the roundelay,
Or haply . . such things have been done before . .
Give her, as from thy pantry, not from mine,
The crumbs of my seed-cake, all soakt in milk.