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