“The poem to be read at the unveiling of my statue of the Muse on your mountain top, which may occur possibly within five years. The opening lines sound thus:
‘Victor of Life and Song,
O Muse of golden grace!’”
“That’s great! Why did you bury it?”
“Don’t you bury your poems? The best poems are those not published. The very best are those not written. Dante Gabriel Rosetti buried his ‘House of Life,’ because they were not for a gaping millionaire’s wife, but only for his own little wife. But his greatness was ruined when he dug them up and sold them. Poor poet! What all the poets ought to do, I think, is to bury their poems in a potato garden. What a shame even the poets have to eat once in a while! They should wait till the potatoes grow, and then sell them in a vegetable stand, calling ‘Poetical Potatoes!’ Do you sell your poems, Mr. Heine?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you making your living with your fruits?”
“I never sell them, my dear.”
“What do you do?”
“I give them to needy persons. But I was obliged, last year, to hang up a sign, ‘No Fruit Lover is Wanted.’ I told an Oakland minister to come up and eat some plums. He brought his wife and children, even his grand-mother. They shouldered away every bit of fruit from half a dozen trees. Next day so many people trampled in with an introduction from the minister.”