From Whitsuntide to Whitsuntide — That is to say, all through the year — Her patient pen was occupied With songs and tales of pleasant cheer. But still her talent went to waste Like flotsam on an open sea; She never hit the public taste, Or knew the knack of Bellettrie. Across the sounding City's fogs There hurtled round her weary head The thunder of the rolling logs; 'The Critics' Carnival!' she said. Immortal prigs took heaven by storm, Prigs scattered largesses of praise; The work of both was rather warm; 'This is,' she said, 'the thing that pays!' Sharp envy turned her wine to blood — I mean it turned her blood to wine; And this resolve came like a flood — 'The cake of knowledge must be mine! 'I am in Eve's predicament — I sha'n't be happy till I've sinned; Away!' She lightly rose, and sent Her scruples sailing down the wind. Across the sounding City's din She wandered, looking indiscreet, And ultimately landed in The neighbourhood of Regent Street. A Decadent was dribbling by; 'Lady,' he said, 'you seem undone; You need a panacea; try This sample of the Bodley bun. 'It is fulfilled of precious spice, Whereof I give the recipe; — Take common dripping, stew in vice, And serve with vertu; taste and see! 'And lo! I brand you on the brow As kin to Nature's lowest germ; You are sister to the microbe now, And second-cousin to the worm.' He gave her of his golden store, Such hunger hovered in her look; She took the bun, and asked for more, And went away and wrote a book. To put the matter shortly, she Became the topic of the town; In all the lists of Bellettrie Her name was regularly down. 'We recognise,' the critics wrote, 'Maupassant's verve and Heine's wit'; Some even made a verbal note Of Shakespeare being out of it. The seasons went and came again; At length the languid Public cried: 'It is a sorry sort of Lane That hardly ever turns aside. 'We want a little change of air; On that,' they said, 'we must insist; We cannot any longer bear The seedy sex-impressionist.' Across the sounding City's din This rumour smote her on the ear: 'The publishers are going in For songs and tales of pleasant cheer!' 'Alack!' she said, 'I lost the art, And left my womanhood foredone, When first I trafficked in the mart All for a mess of Bodley bun. 'I cannot cut my kin at will, Or jilt the protoplastic germ; I am sister to the microbe still, And second-cousin to the worm!' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PORTRAIT OF A BOY by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET LETTER TO JOSEPH WARREN by ROBERT FROST ECSTASY by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SPECIAL PLEADING by SIDNEY LANIER SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: JONAS KEENE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: THE VILLAGE ATHEIST by EDGAR LEE MASTERS PEOPLE'S SURROUNDINGS by MARIANNE MOORE |