The Poet cast aside his pen; his paper flung away.
No more he swore to versify forever and a day.
His epic, wrought in toil and tears, consigned he to the flames;
His nom-de-plume fore'er denied a place among the Names.
Where now is inspiration rapt? Where now can thought take wing?
O Muse, where is thy victory? O Critic, where thy sting?