Proem.
I only knew one poet in my life.
— BROWNING.
I have not known a poet but myself,
If I'm indeed one, as I ought to be,
Considering how these many years I've made
The Muse now such a woman in my life.
No flesh and blood could put to proof the art
With which I wooed her; ay, and woo her still,
Though, as I deem, ere this she has been won.
I have not known another, as I say,
Who could be called a poet, or has been
Acclaimed such by the not too wise in wit
Who label literature's itinerants —
Professed discerners (as in every art
With sheer cock-surety there be those who
Deem their diploma Fame's own warranty);
Who in this journal or in that take stock
O' the issue of thought's making — song at best
A poor result, not to much tending (or if
Esteemed, good, e'en though flawed in some way still).
So these crumb-gatherers for the multitude
Still dole their wit or wisdom week by week,
‘Piece out our imperfections,’ choose, elect
In this or that craft him or her as first,
Second, or third, whatever the degree
Arrived at in the inkling of a whim;
And so with their diploma set the seal
To the rank world's preferment, failing which,
Mere poets must have a bad time of it!
Or haply some one in song's craft himself
Elects himself the chief musician, and
The other nine and ninety jugglers, who
Jig ape-like in the halo of his vogue.
'Tis then song does become ridiculous,
And the proud name of poet poor indeed.
Proud name? Alas! the power of pride is gone,
And the dull world's humility is theirs;
The new bards who, unlike the old, gauge not
The grandeur of the office they fulfil —
The old knight-errantry of Song who rode
Triumphant with God's targe in the world's eye,
Emblazoned with the heraldry of soul
In this wise or in that — the squires of Truth,
Love's worshippers or Beauty's votaries,
Whose mere life was the melody of all.
It may, in fact, be song at best is but
The rind of this life's apple, not its core,
And the chief singers still but mendicants
Of the world's love; and yet it is in sooth
The one thing sweet to its own votary;
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poem by Robert Crawford
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