 | The pink book |  |
33
THE POET AND THE COBBLER.
A weak-kneed member of the thin,
Grave guild of empty purses,
I watch the blue world reel and spin,
And soothe my soul with verses.
Grave guild of empty purses,
I watch the blue world reel and spin,
And soothe my soul with verses.
Not far from me lives Cobbler Paul,
Who, on wet days and sunny,
Sitteth for ever in his stall
Whistling and making money.
Who, on wet days and sunny,
Sitteth for ever in his stall
Whistling and making money.
Friend Paul is stout, with nose dyed red,
And little eyes that twinkle;
The three-score years gone o'er his head,
Have left him scarce a wrinkle.
And little eyes that twinkle;
The three-score years gone o'er his head,
Have left him scarce a wrinkle.
He keeps his mind of one still mood,
Half sour and half witty,
And battens on the platitude
Of this Philistian city.
Half sour and half witty,
And battens on the platitude
Of this Philistian city.
Nor having trouble, nor the least
Fine longing nor presentment,
His life is one slow jogging feast
Of spiced ale and contentment.
Fine longing nor presentment,
His life is one slow jogging feast
Of spiced ale and contentment.
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When rhymes are scarce and song runs low,
Uncovering commonplaces,
When the soul's vasty tempests blow
And wreck my gifts and graces,
Uncovering commonplaces,
When the soul's vasty tempests blow
And wreck my gifts and graces,
When editors are slow to print,
And publishers won't do it,
And conscience schooled by hint on hint,
Cries “Fool! thou art no poet.”—
And publishers won't do it,
And conscience schooled by hint on hint,
Cries “Fool! thou art no poet.”—
I meditate on Paul's content
And easy state, and being
Of a discerning temperament,
I do not fail of seeing,
And easy state, and being
Of a discerning temperament,
I do not fail of seeing,
That he, in spite of awl and knife
And everlasting capples,
Has taken from the tree of life
The sweetest of the apples;
And everlasting capples,
Has taken from the tree of life
The sweetest of the apples;
Whilst I, who would a poet be,
And strive in shine and shower,
Have plucked from that same apple tree,
A fruit that's somewhat sour.
And strive in shine and shower,
Have plucked from that same apple tree,
A fruit that's somewhat sour.
But then, philosophy flies wide,
And seeking satisfaction,
I fish me with the bait called pride,
The waters of abstraction.
And seeking satisfaction,
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The waters of abstraction.
I catch what proves conclusively,
That star-gleams never strike him,
And like a very Pharisee,
Thank God I am not like him.
That star-gleams never strike him,
And like a very Pharisee,
Thank God I am not like him.
“For who,” in merrier mood, I say,
“Can grant the higher status,
Saint Crispin or Urania?
The ‘last’ or an afflatus?”
“Can grant the higher status,
Saint Crispin or Urania?
The ‘last’ or an afflatus?”
And then I fall to conning o'er
Certain despised effusions,
Adding another to a score
Of previous perusions.
Certain despised effusions,
Adding another to a score
Of previous perusions.
Decripit diction, hackneyed rhyme,
And the wan shade of reason,
Groan where there's neither space nor time,
And common sense is treason.
And the wan shade of reason,
Groan where there's neither space nor time,
And common sense is treason.
Young Knowledge flops on unfledged wings,
Dull would-be Wisdom patters
Her vague, unmeaning jargonings
On vague, unmeaning matters.
Dull would-be Wisdom patters
Her vague, unmeaning jargonings
On vague, unmeaning matters.
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All graces that to art belong,
In tinsel strut before us,
Whilst Passion howls a beldame song,
And Discord squalls a chorus.
In tinsel strut before us,
Whilst Passion howls a beldame song,
And Discord squalls a chorus.
Ay! well-a-day! plain truth to tell,
Old Paul outdoes me sadly,
He makes his wares so very well,
And I make mine so badly!
Old Paul outdoes me sadly,
He makes his wares so very well,
And I make mine so badly!
There is no better cordwainer
Than he, from here to Cairo,
For me, I am a bungler,
A sort of chronic tyro.—
Than he, from here to Cairo,
For me, I am a bungler,
A sort of chronic tyro.—
O ye who sit, as is most meet,
Above our work and weather,
Let that we sing be sound and sweet,
Or leave us altogether.
Above our work and weather,
Let that we sing be sound and sweet,
Or leave us altogether.
For if to mortal ye will come
In samite or alpacas,
He had as well be always dumb
As he-haw like a jackass.
In samite or alpacas,
He had as well be always dumb
As he-haw like a jackass.
| The pink book | |