Page 81 - Poetry-Books

Poets they had made—there were two or three
Who’ve taken down the messages of birds,
Whose names are sometimes titled Household Words.
But, lest I smash some well-loved idols here,
I’ll not reveal the names that did appear.
Suffice to say that many I saw there
Were poets by whose verses we would swear,
Whom we admire, indeed, whom we all love,
And think they get their ideals from above,
But who, in fact, this company have paid,
And got their inspiration ready-made.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The revelation stunned me for a while,
And all I did or could do was to smile.
A ghastly grin it was! It hurt me much
To think that brainless Mr. Binks and such
Could get the name on the instalment plan
That life’s whole work scarce brings the poorer man
Whose father, dying, leaves him—oh, how blest! —
A legacy of good advice: Go West,
And, if you can, get rich; if not, don’t cry,
But come back to the East again, and die.
And then again I thought, and, thinking, saw
How grand a germ lay in the scheme. The straw
At which a drowning man might clutch, it held.
The writing on the wall appeared, and spelled
In burning letters such a golden plan
To make a millionaire of starving man,
That for a week I seemed to friends and wife
About to take up with the madman’s life.
And my idea was: Do what they did
In poetry; their prices underbid;
Make of the poet-culture but a branch
Of one grand corporation, broad and stanch,
Of which the aim
Should be to deal in universal fame;
To which might come the man with money blest;
With hopeless aspirations much oppressed,
In any field of life, no matter what!
To take the brainless, put him on the spot
Or pinnacle to which his heart aspires,
To light for him at any point Fame’s fires;

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