 | Laughter from a Cloud |  |
229
SONNET
To J. S.
March 1908
I never cared for literature as such.
The spondee, dactyl, trochee, anapaest,
Do not inflame my passions in the least;
And cultured persons do not please me much.
Great works may be composed in French or Dutch,
Yet my poor happiness is not increased:
To me the learned critic is a beast,
And poetry a decorated crutch.
The spondee, dactyl, trochee, anapaest,
Do not inflame my passions in the least;
And cultured persons do not please me much.
Great works may be composed in French or Dutch,
Yet my poor happiness is not increased:
To me the learned critic is a beast,
And poetry a decorated crutch.
One book among the rest is dear to me;
As when a man, having tired himself in deed
Against the world, and, falling back to write,
Sated with love, or crazed by vanity,
Or drunk with joy, or maimed by Fortune's spite,
Sets down his Paternoster and his Creed.
As when a man, having tired himself in deed
Against the world, and, falling back to write,
Sated with love, or crazed by vanity,
Or drunk with joy, or maimed by Fortune's spite,
Sets down his Paternoster and his Creed.
| Laughter from a Cloud | |