In these days, every mother’s son or daughter
Writes verse, which no one reads except the writer,
Although, uninked, the paper would be whiter,
And worth, per ream, a hare, when you have caught her.
Hundreds of unstaunched Shelleys daily water
Unanswering dust; a thousand Wordsworths scribble;
And twice a thousand Corn Law Rhymers dribble
Rhymed prose, unread. Hymners of fraud and slaughter,
By cant called other names, alone find buyers —
Who buy, but read not. “What a loss in paper,”
Groans each immortal of the host of sighers!
“What profanation of the midnight taper
In expirations vile! But I write well,
And wisely print. Why don’t my poems sell?”
(Ebenezer Elliott)
More Poetry from Ebenezer Elliott:
- Rural Rambles - The Village (Ebenezer Elliott Poems)
- Battle Song (Ebenezer Elliott Poems)
- Steam In the Desert (Ebenezer Elliott Poems)
- Plaint (Ebenezer Elliott Poems)
- The People's Anthem (Ebenezer Elliott Poems)
- The Builders (Ebenezer Elliott Poems)