One Day, When I Was Young, I Read About A Poet, Long Since Dead, Who Fell Asleep, As Poets Do In Writing--And Make Others Too. But Herein Lies The Story'S Gist, How A Gay Queen Came Up And Kist The Sleeper. 'Capital!' Thought I. 'A Like Good Fortune Let Me Try.' Many The Things We Poets Feign. I Feign'D To Sleep, But Tried In Vain. I Tost And Turn'D From Side To Side, With Open Mouth And Nostrils Wide. At Last There Came A Pretty Maid, And Gazed; Then To Myself I Said, 'Now For It!' She, Instead Of Kiss, Cried, 'What A Lazy Lout Is This!'