Tis a moon-tinted primrose, with a well <br />Of trembling dew; in its soft atmosphere, <br />A tiny whirlwind of sweet smells, doth swell <br />A lady bird; and when no sound is near <br />That elfin hermit fans the fairy bell <br />With glazen wings, (mirrors on which appear <br />Atoms of colours that flizz by unseen <br />And struts about his darling flower with pride. <br />But, if some buzzing gnat with pettish spleen <br />Come whining by, the insect ‘gins to hide <br />And folds its flimsy drapery between <br />His speckled buckler and soft silken side. <br /> So poets fly the critics snappish heat, <br /> And sheath their minds in scorn and self-conceit<br /><br />Thomas Lovell Beddoes<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/another-5/
