140
MY ARTIST.
There in wild weather, quite forlorn,
And queer of cloak, and grim of hat,
With locks that might be better shorn,
High on a steeple—who is that?
"It is the man who—I forget—
Stood on a tower in the wet."[1]
And queer of cloak, and grim of hat,
With locks that might be better shorn,
High on a steeple—who is that?
"It is the man who—I forget—
Stood on a tower in the wet."[1]
His faults? He yet is young, you know—
Four with his last year's butterflies.
But think what wonders books may show
When the new Tennysons arise!
For fame that he might illustrate
Let poets be content to wait!
Four with his last year's butterflies.
But think what wonders books may show
When the new Tennysons arise!
For fame that he might illustrate
Let poets be content to wait!
- ↑ "I stood on a tower in the wet,
And Old Year and New Year met."—Tennyson.
