Classic Poem

Little fortune hath the Bard
But a store of coined kisses,
Who can deem his doom so hard
When the Matrons and the Misses
Pay him for songs with blisses?
They are taken with his eyes
And his saint-seducing sighs,
They are ravished by the chimes
Of his silver-sounding rhymes,
And though man be unapproving,
Every maid is sweet and loving;
Poor, rich Poet, all his share
Of gold is in his Lady's hair;
All his diamonds, stars that rise
In the evening of her eyes;
Cold and bare, — his garret gleams
With the lightning of his dreams,
Dreams, dispelling fear and doubt,
Dreams, that drive the hunger out;
Though Fate oft may overwhelm,
King is he of Fancy's realm.