I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy,

The sleepless soul that perished in his pride;

Of him who walked in glory and in joy,

Following his plough, along the mountain-side.

By our own spirits we are deified;

We Poets in our youth begin in gladness,

But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): Resolution and Independence. Stanza 7.