To an Ungentle Critic

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

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

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

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,

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

Across my verse in the classic way.

And, sir, be careful what you say;

There are old-fashioned folk still like it.