Momus
“Where’s the need of singing now?”—
Smooth your brow,
Momus, and be reconciled.
For king Kronos is a child—
Child and father,
Or god rather,
And all gods are wild.
“Who reads Byron any more?”—
Shut the door
Momus, for I feel a draught;
Shut it quick, for some one laughed.—
What’s become of
Browning? Some of
Wordsworth lumbers like a raft?
“What are poets to find here?”—
Have no fear:
When the stars are shining blue
There will yet be left a few
Themes availing—
And these failing,
Momus, there’ll be you.
