Classic Poem

To be a poet? 'Tis to love
The soul in nature that reposes;
The sun, Love's self, the fragrant roses,
And all sweet things below, above.

To be a poet? 'Tis to feel
Infinity within thy breast;
To suffer with the world's oppressed,
And prove with deeds thy sorrow real.

To be a poet? 'Tis to sigh
With hope that life devotes, sublimes;
To suffer death a thousand times,
And then at last never to die!