human
The mire, the strife And vanities of this man's life, Who more than all that e'er have glowed With fancy's flame (and it was his In fullest warmth and radiance) showed What an impostor Genius is; How, with that strong mimetic art Which forms its life and soul, it takes All shapes of thought, all hues of heart, Nor feels itself one throb it wakes; How, like a gem, its light may shine, O'er the dark path by mortals trod, Itself as mean a worm the while As crawls at midnight o'er the sod; * * * * * How, with the pencil hardly dry From coloring up such scenes of love And beauty as make young hearts sigh, And dream and think through heaven they rove,