Lines On Reading Too Many Poets

Roses, rooted warm in earth,   Bud in rhyme, another age;

Lilies know a ghostly birth   Strewn along a patterned page;

Golden lad and chimbley sweep   Die; and so their song shall keep.

Wind that in Arcadia starts   In and out a couplet plays;

And the drums of bitter hearts   Beat the measure of a phrase.

Sweets and woes but come to print   Quae cum ita sint.