There was a poor poet named Clough, Whom his friends all united to puff, But the public, though dull, Had not such a skull As belonged to believers in Clough.
Though one were fair as roses His beauty clouds and closes.
Time stoops to no man's lure.
Change lays not her hand upon truth.
In the world of dreams, I have chosen my part.
There grows No herb of help to heal a coward heart.