Classic and Contemporary Poetry
EXPERIENCE IN POVERTY; DRAMATIC SKETCH, by PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: How bitterly you speak! Last Line: Of this same fair, good, reasonable world! Subject(s): Poverty | ||||||||
A. How bitterly you speak! B. I have good warrant. A. Well, for my part, I hold your creed is false, Uncharitable, monstrous! I have seen The world, sir; studied men and manners in it; And though no doubt some selfishness and craft May evermore be found by those who seek them, Peering too closely underneath the mask Of multiform conventions, yet, by heaven, The world's a fair, good, reasonable world To all who follow reason! Your high fancies, Whose goal is vague impossibility, Of course must miss their mark! We live not, sir, In Eden, or the golden age. B. Right! right! You talk as is most natural in one To whom all life hath been a gay parade, A frolic pastime! -- to whom subtle fortune Hath never turned her dark and lowering front, But round whose footsteps sowed with golden showers Obsequious knaves and sweet-tongued servitors Have fawned and lied and flattered, till your days Borne bravely onward over perfumed tides Passed like a steady bark 'twixt shores of flowers, You know the world! its men and modes forsooth! Wait, sir, until your purse grows lean as mine, And fate within the compass of one evil (A gaunt and loathsome poverty), includes All ills that flesh is heir to! disrespect From insolent curs that now you'd hardly stoop To soil your lordly boot with! studied coldness Of ancient friends whose easy faith declines With your decreasing wine-butts! covert sneers, Or open insult from the gaudy throng Of parasites, who breathe alone in sunshine! Grief without balm, and pain that knows not pity; Dark days, and maddening midnights, and the pang Of outraged feeling, and the soul's despair: Ay! wait, I say, until from depths like these, The lonely thunder growling overhead, And misery like a cataract raging round Your path of ruin, wild and desperate eyes Are lifted to the summits of past hope, Receding ever with their shows of joy, Less real than the mirage, or the domes Which sunset builds on clouds of phantasy! Wait till the fiend that's born of famished hours Shall grasp your hand in bony fellow-ship, And lead you through the mist of ghastly dreams, Helpless and tottering, to the brink of death! Ha! ha! you shrink! the picture does not please Your dainty fancy! Well, soft optimist, Confess there's somewhat you have still to learn Of this same fair, good, reasonable world! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WEALTH OF THE DESTITUTE by DENISE LEVERTOV EMPTY PITCHFORKS by THOMAS LUX FUNERAL SERVICE by EVE MERRIAM A SMALL COUNTRY by CLARIBEL ALEGRIA DOCUMENTAL by CLARIBEL ALEGRIA NOTES ON POVERTY by HAYDEN CARRUTH SONG OF TWO CROWS by HAYDEN CARRUTH PENCIL STUB JOURNALS: CHOICES by JOHN CIARDI AT LAST WE KILLED THE ROACHES by LUCILLE CLIFTON A STORM IN THE DISTANCE (AMONG THE GEORGIAN HILLS) by PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE |
|