'Twas all, and you were well content. Fine loss was this for anger's vent-- A strophe ill made midst your play, Sweet sound that chased the words away In stormy flight. An ode quite new, With rhymes inflated--stanzas, too, That panted, moving lazily, And heavy Alexandrine lines That seemed to jostle bodily, Like children full of play designs That spring at once from schoolroom's form. Instead of all this angry storm, Another might have thanked you well For saving prey from that grim cell, That hollowed den 'neath journals great, Where editors who poets flout With their demoniac laughter shout. And I have scolded you! What fate For charming dwarfs who never meant To anger Hercules! And I Have frightened you!--My chair I sent Back to the wall, and then let fly A shower of words the envious use-- "Get out," I said, with hard abuse, "Leave me alone--alone I say." Poor man alone! Ah, well-a-day, What fine result--what triumph rare! As one turns from the coffin'd dead So left you me:--I could but stare Upon the door through which you fled-- I proud and grave--but punished quite. And what care you for this my plight!-- You have recovered liberty, Fresh air and lovely scenery, The spacious park and wished-for grass; The running stream, where you can throw A blade to watch what comes to pass; Blue sky, and all the spring can show; Nature, serenely fair to see; The book of birds and spirits free, God's poem, worth much more than mine, Where flowers for perfect stanzas shine-- Flowers that a child may pluck in play, No harsh voice frightening it away. And I'm alone--all pleasure o'er-- Alone with pedant called "Ennui," For since the morning at my door Ennui has waited patiently. That docto-r-London born, you mark, One Sunday in December dark, Poor little ones--he loved you not, And waited till the chance he got To enter as you passed away, And in the very corner where You played with frolic laughter gay, He sighs and yawns with weary air.