"Who can speak the crimes of rhyming?" Said a poet. Well he knew What this vile and senseless chiming Tempts a singer's soul to do: How it alters his rude power, Nature's firstborn rhythm vast, Into trifles for an hour Cheap and vulgar, first to last! How it changes his swift dancing, Pause and whirl of tireless feet, Into capers unentrancing, Cut for pennies on the street. Or if all the gold of Indies Could not tempt him to such shame, Deeper yet the poet's sin lies: He is jingling but for fame: Idol made of gilded paper, Crammed inside with chaff and bran, Fit to dolt the foolish gaper, Fit only to be kicked by man! Whether gold or fame, no matter Which I serve, it is the same, For my castanets I clatter, Bawl some vulgar song of shame In a voice that cracks and falters; And I tumble on my head In this garb that nothing alters, Clown-costume of white and red. People laugh and think me funny, Deem my face a mirthful sight. When I go 'round for the money, Then they scatter, left and right! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WRECK OF THE DEUTSCHLAND by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS JONAH'S SONG, FR. MOBY DICK by HERMAN MELVILLE THE CORAL GROVE by JAMES GATES PERCIVAL THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 57. TRUE WOMAN, HER LOVE by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI IN LIGHTER VEIN by ELIZABETH KEMPER ADAMS |