What time the poet hath hymned <br />The writhing maid, lithe-limbed, <br />Quivering on amaranthine asphodel, <br />How can he paint her woes, <br />Knowing, as well he knows, <br />That all can be set right with calomel? <br /> <br />When from the poet's plinth <br />The amorous colocynth <br />Yearns for the aloe, faint with rapturous thrills, <br />How can he hymn their throes <br />Knowing, as well he knows, <br />That they are only uncompounded pills? <br /> <br />Is it, and can it be, <br />Nature hath this decree, <br />Nothing poetic in the world shall dwell? <br />Or that in all her works <br />Something poetic lurks, <br />Even in colocynth and calomel?<br /><br />William Schwenck Gilbert<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poetry-everywhere/
