Some thought his poetry meant this
And still others that.
He wore a hat
And often (being lost in rhymes)
Went out with no raincoat.
He had no moat
And little private wealth.
The reader sighs
Trying to categorise
The poet’s view.
Some declare that he was a Tory of the deepest blue
(while others protest this was not true!).
A few saw a man of the left,
But found themselves bereft
On finding verse which (they say)
Romanticised the nobility of yesterday.
Perhaps the poet smiles somewhere
(or, perchance he doesn’t care),
For who knows
Where the rhymer goes
When his ink runs dry
And his words finally die.
He lived his life like a feather, blown hither and thither forever, by the cold winds of change. Young ladies of pleasure filled his leisure with bliss and pain. He held nothing dear, no one came near, life passed him by, until with a sithe, death came and called his name.