“Where's the need of singing now?”-
Smooth your brow,
Momus, and be reconciled,
For King Kronos is a child-
Child and father,
Or god rather,
And all gods are wild.

“Who reads Byron any more?”-
Shut the door,
Momus, for I feel a draught;
Shut it quick, for some one laughed.-
“What's become of
Browning? Some of
Wordsworth lumbers like a raft?

“What are poets to find here?”-
Have no fear:
When the stars are shining blue
There will yet be left a few
Themes availing-
And these failing,
Momus, there'll be you.