Between Ghent And Bruges

AH yes, exactly so; but when a man Has trundled out of England into France And half through Belgium, always in this prance Of steam, and still has stuck to his first plan— Blank verse or sonnets; and as he began Would end;—why, even the blankest verse may chance To falter in default of circumstance, And even the sonnet miss its mystic span. Trees will be trees, grass grass, pools merely pools, Unto the end of time and Belgium—points Of fact which Poets (very abject fools) Get scent of—once their epithets grown tame And scarce. Even to these foreign rails—my joints Begin to find their jolting much the same.