At men of blind conceit
My curses I direct,
At youths who fail to treat
Their elders with respect.
Cowards I curse in peace
And doubly curse in war.
Greed, callousness, caprice
I curse no less, no more.
All nations I esteem,
So here’s a treble curse
On shameless men who deem
One best and others worse.
A curse on friends who may
Desert me in a squall,
A curse on those who play
Whatever tune is called!
TO EDITORS
Like sweet revenge, within my breast
The lines of verse arise
Which, like a secret love, I keep
Away from prying eyes.
I feel my weakling verse’s pulse
And fashion stronger rhymes,
As makers of a clock adjust
The pendulum and chimes.
I choose the finest harmonies
To make it sing and soar,
As for a guest the very best
Of vintages we pour.
I shuffle words of many hues,
The play of light to judge,
As women shuffle coloured wool
Before they weave a rug.
A line may now and then turn out
Not quite as I intend.
A better poet better verse
Might possibly have penned.
But these, my words, are my whole life,
My love and my delight.
So, editors, how dare you lay
Your hands on what I write!
You can’t improve my offspring, nor
Do I require your help.
Say what they should be punished for—
I’ll twist their ears myself!
* * *
My spirit compulsively kindles
Three fiery wishes in me…
To hold in my arms one more woman
And then—what will be, will be!
To drain one more horn with a flourish—
God shall not hold this against me!
To pen yet another love lyric
And then—what will be, will be!