Arthur
Grimble .
The poet , whose
soul's unrest
Kills
all
his
spirit
's
ease
,
But
yet
is
blest
With
sweet
increase
.
Lifts up his
voice
,
elate
,
And
carols
blithe
and
free
;
For
to
create
Is
ecstasy
.
Pain
has but
little
worth
For
those
who travail
long
To
bring
to
birth
A
son
,
a
song
.