The self-indulgence of (some) poets

I don't read a lot of poetry, but am deeply fond of many poets.  Keats, Tennyson, Houseman and of course Shakespeare all spring to mind. But some poets....oh dear.

Take Herrick. "Fair daffodils, we weep to see you fade away so soon".

No, we don't. Weep over daffodils, that is. Or most of us don't. The daffodils have died. Get over it. There'll be more next year. Have you nothing better ( or worse) to weep over? (these immortal,lines came to me as I was throwing out some dead ones).

Daffodils seem to bring out the worst in poets. Take Wordsworth, "wandering lonely as a cloud" among his. Many people would give a lot to have the time to wander about among daffodils.
 I bet poor Dorothy didn't. (I have to say that I find that poem particularly irritating.)

But Keats's wonderful "knight at arms, alone and palely loitering". I'm sure he really did have problems.

I'll stop grumbling now. It's all because snow makes me grumpy.

Now I've got to go and borrow a shovel before our sprightly neighbour, who is considerably older than I am but has ten times the energy, gets there first.