The Poetry of Real Life A New Edition, Much Enlarged and Improved. By Henry Ellison |
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REFLECTIONS ON PUBLISHING MY POEMS. |
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 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
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REFLECTIONS ON PUBLISHING MY POEMS.
Pardon, my fellow-man, if I in aught
Have sinned against the Truth—I have not set
Down aught in malice: but we may forget,
And that be wrong which was sincerely thought—
Much labour, and of love more, have I brought
To this my task, for 'tis a sacred debt—
For Thought doth in immortal kind beget
His issue, with commensurate evil fraught
Or good, when once made known—O pardon then:
For, in the name of our Humanity,
To thee, though least of all thy fellow-men,
I owe a strict account of all that I
Have wrought, for good or evil, with my pen,
The sceptre of all spiritual sovereignty!
Have sinned against the Truth—I have not set
Down aught in malice: but we may forget,
And that be wrong which was sincerely thought—
Much labour, and of love more, have I brought
To this my task, for 'tis a sacred debt—
For Thought doth in immortal kind beget
His issue, with commensurate evil fraught
Or good, when once made known—O pardon then:
For, in the name of our Humanity,
To thee, though least of all thy fellow-men,
I owe a strict account of all that I
Have wrought, for good or evil, with my pen,
The sceptre of all spiritual sovereignty!
And something at thy hands too I deserve:
That sympathy, by which, as Man, I live,
The love I seek alone for all I give—
Much has it cost of firmness, not to swerve
From my once-chosen path: much to preserve
That simpleness of mind, which doth survive,
In spite of all: though Custom 'gainst it strive,
And want of sympathy at times unnerve.
Much have I borne: still more forborne: and rent
Old ties in twain, like tendrils of the heart:
Harsh words I've heard, and, far worse, missed my part
Of kind ones, with their sweet encouragement;
Yet bate I not a jot of hope, but start
Afresh, to do that for which I was sent!
That sympathy, by which, as Man, I live,
The love I seek alone for all I give—
Much has it cost of firmness, not to swerve
From my once-chosen path: much to preserve
That simpleness of mind, which doth survive,
In spite of all: though Custom 'gainst it strive,
And want of sympathy at times unnerve.
Much have I borne: still more forborne: and rent
Old ties in twain, like tendrils of the heart:
Harsh words I've heard, and, far worse, missed my part
Of kind ones, with their sweet encouragement;
Yet bate I not a jot of hope, but start
Afresh, to do that for which I was sent!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |