To write or not to write, that seems to be A question that is agitating me; For style and taste are changing with the moon; The writer, critic, loony as a loon; And meter, rhythm, sense, and even rhyme, Ignored, despised and outraged half the time, Until the stream-line model is a verse Of badly juggled prose or something worse. I like the songs sung by the bards of old, With melodies of sweetness, themes of gold, And in my aspiration long to climb Toward those everlasting peaks sublime; But if my shortened sight could trace a path Through all the changing years and aftermath, To yonder heights from which their lamps have shown, I fear I must needs tread that path alone. It seems the verdict, nay, it is, indeed, Of those who in the field of verse would lead, The deeper hid the theme, if theme it has, Or broken, scattered, scrambled, well, like jazz, The higher is the art, provided too, It shuns all meter, rhythm, and is new, Or else some college technic and the blind Excentric impulse of a roving mind. Ignoring quite this deviating trend, When I do write, my powers all shall bend To make my message clear, and furthermore, Provide a theme of worthiness. Therefore; The verse that I select shall trip along As gently as an old forgotten song Comes back to memory, with its theme, apart, The richest treasure of my humble heart. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NOCTURNE by JOHN VAN ALSTYN WEAVER THE FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKIS by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER LOVE SONNET by GEORGE HENRY BOKER AT ROMEO'S TOMB by AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR THE CANTERBURY TALES: PROLOGUE TO SIR THOPAS by GEOFFREY CHAUCER A FLAKE OF FOAM by LAVINIA R. CLARK |