The Eighth Sin/Ars Poetica
For works with similar titles, see Ars Poetica.
Keats is dead and has left no heir,
But his words are balm to the sorely tried:
If you want to write verses rich and rare
See that your shoes are neatly tied!
ARS POETICA.
"Whenever I find myself growing vaporish I rouse myself, wash and put on a clean shirt, brush my hair and clothes, tie my shoe-strings neatly, and, in fact, adonize, as if I were going out—then all clean and comfortable, I sit down to write." (Keats. Letter to his brother George.)
When the wheel of song are but scantly oiled
And the ballad is tinkered beyond repair,
When the springs of metre are all uncoiled
And your pitiful cupboard of rhymes is bare,
When Pegasus, poor old knock-kneed mare,
Heeds not the spur in her bleeding hide—
What is the remedy? Brush your hair
And see that your shoes are neatly tied!
And the ballad is tinkered beyond repair,
When the springs of metre are all uncoiled
And your pitiful cupboard of rhymes is bare,
When Pegasus, poor old knock-kneed mare,
Heeds not the spur in her bleeding hide—
What is the remedy? Brush your hair
And see that your shoes are neatly tied!
When the bard has vainly scraped and toiled,
And gazes at last in black despair
On the Muse's fountain muddied and roiled,
Finding no dainty image there
When verse is a bitterness and a snare,
And even your hypocrite friend deride—
Put your feet on the nearest chair
And see that your shoes are neatly tied!
And gazes at last in black despair
On the Muse's fountain muddied and roiled,
Finding no dainty image there
When verse is a bitterness and a snare,
And even your hypocrite friend deride—
Put your feet on the nearest chair
And see that your shoes are neatly tied!
When the poet's pot has bubbled and boiled
And still yields indigestible fare,
When the delicate morsel is wholly spoiled
And such is your rage that you do not care—
Then is the time to be debonair
And full of a pumiced and lavendered pride,
Get out your finest clothes to wear
And see that your shoes are neatly tied!
And still yields indigestible fare,
When the delicate morsel is wholly spoiled
And such is your rage that you do not care—
Then is the time to be debonair
And full of a pumiced and lavendered pride,
Get out your finest clothes to wear
And see that your shoes are neatly tied!
Envoy.
Keats is dead and has left no heir,
But his words are balm to the sorely tried:
If you want to write verses rich and rare
See that your shoes are neatly tied!