Poor little poem, how forlorn returning That wentest forth with how high hopes of fame! Didst not experience a sense of shame Or indignation mute, against thy spurning, When nothing saved thee from contemptuous burning, Or parsimonious selling, save my name And paltry lucre? Ah, 'tis still the same From age to age with much of mortal yearning. Man toils and sweats for wealth he may not gain; In hopeless quest of glory doth he bleed; To fame's dim heights, unscalable, would climb. Yet fruitless effort is not all in vain; Success may lie in failure to succeed; 'Twas thus perhaps with thee, dear foolish rhyme. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TWILIGHT COMES by HAYDEN CARRUTH LOVELIGHT by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TEARS AND KISSES by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SONG BY THE WINDOW BEFORE BED by KATHERINE MANSFIELD DOMESDAY BOOK: GREGORY WENNER by EDGAR LEE MASTERS ANOTHER DARK LADY by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON |