A poet in London, it is cabled, declares that true poets should never work. They should await inspiration in order to fit the mind for the reception of the Muse.
Perhaps true poets never toil --
I do not know.
Their minds are rich and virgin soil Where flowers grow --
Rare everlastings born to smile In Time's great rooms -- That
come once every long, long while, As cactus blooms. But how, I
always want to know, Do poets eat, If now and then they do not
grow A crop of wheat -- Some marketable product which
The people buy? Even if they do not wax rich,
What need to die? Should one wait for a tardy Muse,
Patient and dumb? But then, suppose she should refuse
Ever to come? Or, coming, find the bard's wan cheek
Awry with pain; The host with hunger far too weak
To entertain. Mere rhymsters weaving little rhymes,
Unstable stuff To please the crowd and suit the times,
Find pain enough. So they must toil to serve gross needs
Till some glad day, When men will turn aside from weeds,
And flowers pay.
Perhaps true poets never toil --
I do not know.
Their minds are rich and virgin soil
Where flowers grow --
Rare everlastings born to smile
In Time's great rooms --
That come once every long, long while,
As cactus blooms.
But how, I always want to know,
Do poets eat,
If now and then they do not grow
A crop of wheat --
Some marketable product which
The people buy?
Even if they do not wax rich,
What need to die?
Should one wait for a tardy Muse,
Patient and dumb?
But then, suppose she should refuse
Ever to come?
Or, coming, find the bard's wan cheek
Awry with pain;
The host with hunger far too weak
To entertain.
Mere rhymsters weaving little rhymes,
Unstable stuff
To please the crowd and suit the times,
Find pain enough.
So they must toil to serve gross needs
Till some glad day,
When men will turn aside from weeds,
And flowers pay.
First published in The Herald, 6 May 1930
