AH yes, exactly so; but when a man
Has trundled out of England into France
And half through Belgium, always in this prance
Of steam, and still has stuck to his first plan
Blank verse or sonnets; and as he began
Would end;why, even the blankest verse may chance
To falter in default of circumstance,
And even the sonnet miss its mystic span.
Trees will be trees, grass grass, pools merely pools,
Unto the end of time and Belgiumpoints
Of fact which Poets (very abject fools)
Get scent ofonce their epithets grown tame
And scarce. Even to these foreign railsmy joints
Begin to find their jolting much the same.
Between Ghent And Bruges
written byDante Gabriel Rossetti
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti