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.