Byron, that pouting beast, he could take or leave.
Wordsworth? He could only pronounce him worried.
Too often the last part came out warts. And Keats, well,
who survives Keats? Now Coleridge on the other hand—
and though neither quite matched, he did have another—
Coleridge was chewy. At least as long as the poems
had demons, something likely, in them. Still, Shelley seemed
dead on—he had an eye for it, death, for knowing
what chains meant, and fairies, and fire. And the skylark,
so high, cold and far away—though he'd never seen
one—the skylark he knew he would know when he ate one,
slowly, sucking the soft parts clean from the spine.