Shapes of Clay

Let lowly themes engage my humble pen—

Stupidities of critics, not of men.

Be it mine once more the maunderings to trace

Of the expounders' self-directed race—

Their wire-drawn fancies, finically fine,

Of diligent vacuity the sign.

Let them in jargon of their trade rehearse

The moral meaning of the random verse

That runs spontaneous from the poet's pen

To be half-blotted by ambitious men

Who hope with his their meaner names to link

By writing o'er it in another ink

The thoughts unreal which they think they think,

Until the mental eye in vain inspects

The hateful palimpsest to find the text.

The lark ascending heavenward, loud and long

Sings to the dawning day his wanton song.

The moaning dove, attentive to the sound,

Its hidden meaning hastens to expound:

Explains its principles, design—in brief,

Pronounces it a parable of grief!

The bee, just pausing ere he daubs his thigh

With pollen from a hollyhock near by,

Declares he never heard in terms so just

The labor problem thoughtfully discussed!

The browsing ass looks up and clears his whistle

To say: "A monologue upon the thistle!"

Meanwhile the lark, descending, folds his wing

And innocently asks: "What!—did I sing?"

O literary parasites! who thrive

Upon the fame of better men, derive

Your sustenance by suction, like a leech,

And, for you preach of them, think masters preach,—

Who find it half is profit, half delight,

To write about what you could never write,—

Consider, pray, how sharp had been the throes

Of famine and discomfiture in those

You write of if they had been critics, too,

And doomed to write of nothing but of you!

Lo! where the gaping crowd throngs yonder tent,

To see the lion resolutely bent!

The prosing showman who the beast displays

Grows rich and richer daily in its praise.

But how if, to attract the curious yeoman,

The lion owned the show and showed the showman?