by Hartley Coleridge (1796-1849)
He lived amidst the untrodden ways
To Rydal Lake that lead;
A bard whom there were none to praise,
And very few to read.
Behind a cloud his mystic sense,
Deep hidden, who can spy?
Bright as the night when not a star
Is shining in the sky.
Unread his works—his ‛Milk White Doe’
With dust is dark and dim;
It’s still in Longman’s shop, and oh!
The difference to him!