To an Ungentle Critic

The great sun sinks behind the town Through a red mist of Volnay wine . . . . But what’s the use of setting down That glorious blaze behind the town? You’ll only skip the page, you’ll look For newer pictures in this book; You’ve 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? You’ll only frown; you’ll 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: We’ve read this poem – that 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.