"Though I've no friend to share my woe
And bitter tears unseen may flow,
To soothe my grief I silent go
To tell the stars.
"And when my time shall come to die
I care not where my flesh shall lie
Because I know my soul shall fly
Back to the stars!"
"Did you write that?" I exclaimed.
"Aye, I did!" he answered, a little anxiously. "Rhymes true, don't
it?"
"Yes."
"Goes wi' a swing, don't it?"
"Yes."
"Very well then; what more can you want in a verse?"
"But you've got more--much more!"
"What more?"
"A great deal! Atmosphere, for one thing--"
"Why, 't was writ under a hedge," he explained. "And now, friend,
p'raps you'll oblige me wi' one o' yourn?"
"Indeed I would rather not," said I, finding myself oddly ill at ease
for once.
"Come, fair is fair!" he urged. Hereupon, after some little
reflection, I began reciting this, one of my latest efforts:
"Hail, gentle Dian, goddess-queen
Throned 'mid th' Olympian vasts
Majestic, splendidly serene
'Spite Boreas' rageful blasts.
Immaculate, 'midst starry fires
Incalculable thou--"
here I stopped suddenly and bowed my head.
"Why, what now, young sir; what's wrong?" questioned the Tinker.
"Everything!" said I miserably. "This is not poetry!"
"It--sounds very fine!" said the Tinker kindly.
"But it is just sound and nothing more--it is fatuous--trivial--it has
no soul, no meaning, nothing of value--I shall never be a poet!" And
knowing this for very truth, there was born in me a humility wholly
unknown until this moment.
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