Not the meanest aspiration
Ever sprung from soul depraved
Into art, but art’s elation
Was the sanctity it craved.
Oh, no doubt you had your troubles,
Devils blue that blanched your hope.
I dare say your fancy’s bubbles,
Breaking, had a taste of soap.
Did your lady-loves undo you
In some mediæval way?
Ah, my Raphael, here’s to you!
It is much the same to-day.
Did their tantalizing laughter
Make your wisdom overbold?
Were you fire at first; and after,
Did their kisses leave you cold?
Did some fine perfidious Nancy,
With the roses in her hair,
Play the marsh-fire to your fancy
Over quagmires of despair?
My poor boy, were there more flowers
In your Florence and your Rome,
Wasting through the gorgeous hours,
Than your two hands could bring home?
Be content; you have your glory;
Life was full and sleep is well.
What the end is of the story,
There’s no paragraph to tell.
TO P. V.
So they would raise your monument,
Old vagabond of lovely earth?
Another answer without words
To Humdrum’s, “What are poets worth?”