We Poets Pride Ourselves On What We Feel, And Not What We Achieve; The World May Call Our Children Fools, Enough For Us That We Conceive. A Little Wren That Loves The Grass Can Be As Proud As Any Lark That Tumbles In A Cloudless Sky, Up Near The Sun, Till He Becomes The Apple Of That Shining Eye. So, Lady, I Would Never Dare To Hear Your Music Ev'Ry Day; With Those Great Bursts That Send My Nerves In Waves To Pound My Heart Away; And Those Small Notes That Run Like Mice Bewitched By Light; Else On Those Keys - My Tombs Of Song - You Should Engrave: 'My Music, Stronger Than His Own, Has Made This Poet My Dumb Slave.'