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THIS was a Poet—It is thatDistills amazing senseFrom ordinaryMeanings,And attars so immenseFrom the familiar speciesThat perished by the door,We wonder it was notOurselvesArrested it before.
Of pictures the discloser—The Poet, it is he,Entitles us by contrastTo ceaseless poverty.
Of portion so unconsciousThe robbing could not harm,Himself, to him, a fortuneExterior to Time.
