Oh dear Lord Byron, hear me, William Blake,
Most favored balladeers of Albion
Treat of things as deep, dark, quite like a lake
And of things so soft, gentle, like a fawn.
Ballads, short, sweet, and lyrical
With perfect rhyme and regularity,
Your words are touching, almost spiritual
Such mastery of meter, melody.
But Wordsworth and Coleridge, your poems I find
Confused and dragging – in a word, middling
I hesitate to write words more unkind
But your work was not very affecting.
English Romantics, this was my review
I wrote it in sonnet-form as a tribute.