Poetry me?

* poetry me? *
Dead white men in white stockings
Writing down idle thoughts with quills
Is how I think of poets still
And yet you quote them
as if you met and know them
Make me feel illiterate beside
The knowledge you hold inside
An aside about Pope
I cannot recall what he even wrote
Wordsworth and Blake it seems
Populated your days not dreams
With verse and rhythm dip
From your lips I wish to sip
Every morsel of delight there found
Your belief in words so profound
And I who shelter and scribe
Trying this world to describe
Catch a hint of wonder pure
As my words you assure
Possess a whiff of this ancient art
A muse assists me to impart
My thoughts in words contained
Such hubris sowed for your pains.