These bitter stammered rhymes, Tuneless so many times, And always rent and torn, What have they they can plead At the bar of the critic-breed, That to life they should be born? Nothing but this, that they, In their own drifting way, Express the soul that bred 'em. And it is something if verse, For many a priest does worse, Takes a man and his style to wed 'em. In every child of earth There runs thro' his head from birth A broken stammered tune, The fairy-tale of his days; And 'tis much, if, with little to praise, He can mutter this to the moon. For the little things he spied at, And the little things he cried at, Take a far-flung wistful gleam, And seem as they drift on the mood Of his verse, however crude, To belong to the infinite stream. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...REVELATION AT CAP FERRAT by CLARENCE MAJOR CONTRA MORTEM: THE VILLAGE by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE SOCIOLOGY OF TOYOTAS AND JADE CHRYSANTHEMUMS by HAYDEN CARRUTH RHYTHM by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON |