Poetry Everywhere

WHAT time the poet hath hymnedThe writhing maid, lithe-limbed,Quivering on amaranthine asphodel,How can he paint her woes,Knowing, as well he knows,That all can be set right with calomel?

When from the poet's plinthThe amorous colocynthYearns for the aloe, faint with rapturous thrills,How can he hymn their throesKnowing, as well he knows,That they are only uncompounded pills?

Is it, and can it be,Nature hath this decree,Nothing poetic in the world shall dwell?Or that in all her worksSomething poetic lurks,Even in colocynth and calomel?