The poet took his battered lyre,
And to the careless maid
He softly tuned a song of fire.
She laughed-out from the shade,
And said: "I do not care a thing
For that fantastic song you sing."
The poet touched the cords anew,
And sang a second verse,
Of love as gentle and as true
As mortal heart might nurse,
She drew a lozenge from her muff,
And called his poem "hopeless stuff."
The poet still sang on. His lay
Gave glory to her nose.
Her hair was like the western day,
When dipping hotly goes
The sun behind the glowing sea.
She said: "It sounds just rot to me."
The poet sang in perfect tune
To her brown-golden eyes.
She said: "It is a wretched run."
He answered: "Sweet and wise
I do not give a button for
Your judgment -- you're no editor!"
First published in The Bulletin, 04 September 1919
