Comparisons are odious to me
For every one I think of has been done
By some poor poet lost to history
Or by some great but enigmatic one;
No matter which, it cannot be done now,
For these days are too conscious of their past,
And like a tyrant's subjects humbly bow
Before the very shadow he may cast
Cannot abide a former influence,
Nor re-embrace a once-beloved conceit.
The sad, unvavoidable consequence
Is that the spectres of the past defeat
All hope I might have had to compare you
To anything I might have wanted to.
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