| |
| THE GREAT sun sinks behind the town | |
| Through a red mist of Volnay wine…. | |
| But what’s the use of setting down | |
| That glorious blaze behind the town? | |
| You’ll only skip the page, you’ll look | 5 |
| For newer pictures in this book; | |
| You’ve read of sunsets rich as mine. | |
| |
| A fresh wind fills the evening air | |
| With horrid crying of night birds…. | |
| But what reads new or curious there | 10 |
| When cold winds fly across the air? | |
| You’ll only frown; you’ll turn the page, | |
| But find no glimpse of your “New Age | |
| Of Poetry” in my worn-out words. | |
| |
| Must winds that cut like blades of steel | 15 |
| And sunsets swimming in Volnay, | |
| The holiest, cruellest pains I feel, | |
| Die stillborn, because old men squeal | |
| For something new: “Write something new: | |
| We’ve read this poem—that one too, | 20 |
| And twelve more like ’em yesterday”? | |
| |
| No, no! my chicken, I shall scrawl | |
| Just what I fancy as I strike it, | |
| Fairies and Fusiliers, and all | |
| Old broken knock-kneed thought will crawl | 25 |
| Across my verse in the classic way. | |
| And, sir, be careful what you say; | |
| There are old-fashioned folk still like it. | |
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