Poem by Walter Savage Landor

The Poet Who Sleeps

One day, when I was young, I read
About a poet, long since dead,
Who fell asleep, as poets do
In writing--and make others too.
But herein lies the story's gist,
How a gay queen came up and kist
The sleeper.
  'Capital!' thought I.
'A like good fortune let me try.'
Many the things we poets feign.
I feign'd to sleep, but tried in vain.
I tost and turn'd from side to side,
With open mouth and nostrils wide.
At last there came a pretty maid,
And gazed; then to myself I said,
'Now for it!' She, instead of kiss,
Cried, 'What a lazy lout is this!'

1. With Rosy Hand a Little Girl Prest Down
2. Dirce
3. Twenty Years Hence My Eyes May Grow
4. Pleasure! Why Thus Desert the Heart
5. Proud Word You Never Spoke, But You Will Speak

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