All things can tempt me from this craft of verse：

    One time it was a woman‘s face， or worse—

    The seeming needs of my fool-driven land；

    Now nothing but comes readier to the hand

    Than this accustomed toil. When I was young，

    I had not given a penny for a song

    Did not the poet sing it with such airs

    That one believed he had a sword upstairs；

    Yet would be now， could I but have my wish，

    Colder and dumber and deafer than a fish.