AH yes, exactly so; but when a man <br />Has trundled out of England into France <br />And half through Belgium, always in this prance <br />Of steam, and still has stuck to his first plan— <br />Blank verse or sonnets; and as he began <br />Would end;—why, even the blankest verse may chance <br />To falter in default of circumstance, <br />And even the sonnet miss its mystic span. <br />Trees will be trees, grass grass, pools merely pools, <br />Unto the end of time and Belgium—points <br />Of fact which Poets (very abject fools) <br />Get scent of—once their epithets grown tame <br />And scarce. Even to these foreign rails—my joints <br />Begin to find their jolting much the same.<br /><br />Dante Gabriel Rossetti<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/between-ghent-and-bruges/
