64525: To An Ungentle Critic

<p dir="ltr"> The great sun sinks behind the town<br> Through a red mist of Volnay wine....<br> But what's the use of setting down<br> That glorious blaze behind the town?<br> You'll only skip the page, you'll look<br> For newer pictures in this book;<br> You've read of sunsets rich as mine.<br> A fresh wind fills the evening air<br> With horrid crying of night birds....<br> But what reads new or curious there<br> When cold winds fly across the air?<br> You'll only frown; you'll turn the page,<br> But find no glimpse of your 'New Age<br> Of Poetry' in my worn-out words.<br> Must winds that cut like blades of steel<br> And sunsets swimming in Volnay,<br> The holiest, cruellest pains I feel,<br> Die stillborn, because old men squeal<br> For something new: 'Write something new:<br> We've read this poem---that one too,<br> And twelve more like 'em yesterday'?<br> No, no! my chicken, I shall scrawl<br> Just what I fancy as I strike it,<br> Fairies and Fusiliers, and all.<br> Old broken knock-kneed thought will crawl<br> Across my verse in the classic way.<br> And, sir, be careful what you say;<br> There are old-fashioned folk still like it.</p>