. A poet!--He hath put his heart to school, <br /> Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff <br /> Which art hath lodged within his hand--must laugh <br /> By precept only, and shed tears by rule. <br /> Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff, <br /> And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, <br /> In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool <br /> Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph. <br /> How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold? <br /> Because the lovely little flower is free <br /> Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold; <br /> And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree <br /> Comes not by casting in a formal mould, <br /> But from its own divine vitality.<br /><br />William Wordsworth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-poet-he-hath-put-his-heart-to-school/
