I've spent a large part of the day trying to steal from Catullus by way of AE Housman and I gotta say- if ever two poets managed the art of concealing the art, it's them. I'd be green with envy if I was any kind of poet at all, which fortunately I'm not, so I'm just dumb with admiration.
Loitering with a vacant eye Along the Grecian gallery, And brooding on my heavy ill, I met a statue standing still. Still in marble stone stood he, And stedfastly he looked at me. ‘Well met,’ I thought the look would say, ‘We both were fashioned far away; We neither knew, when we were young, These Londoners we live among.’
Still he stood and eyed me hard, An earnest and a grave regard: ‘What, lad, drooping with your lot? I too would be where I am not. I too survey that endless line Of men whose thoughts are not as mine. Years, ere you stood up from rest, On my neck the collar prest; Years, when you lay down your ill, I shall stand and bear it still. Courage, lad, ’tis not for long: Stand, quit you like stone, be strong.’ So I thought his look would say; And light on me my trouble lay, And I stept out in flesh and bone Manful like the man of stone. --A Shropshire Lad