I LIKE the darling critics—like?
O, how upon their work I linger,
When they their weapons use to strike,
Not me, but some less happy singer.
The treasure of their venom-bags
So finely on the bard's expended,
One half-forgets the little wags
Were from a scorpion-race descended!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem