For three years, out of key with his time, He strove to resuscitate the dead art Of poetry to maintain 'the sublime' In the old sense. Wrong from the start No, hardly, but seeing he had been born In a half savage country, out of date.
For three years, out of key with his time, He strove to resuscitate the dead art Of poetry to maintain 'the sublime' In the old sense. Wrong from the start No, hardly, but seeing he had been born In a half savage country, out of date.
And the betrayers of language ...... n and the press gang And those who had lied for hire The perverts, the perverters of language, the perverts, who have set money-lust Before the pleasures of the senses howling, as of a hen-yard in a printing-house, the clatter of presses, the blowing of dry dust and stray paper, foetor, sweat, the stench of stale oranges.
As for literature It gives no man a sinecure. And no one knows, at sight, a masterpiece. And give up verse, my boy, There's nothing in it.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories