| |
| WHEN the long murmur of applause | |
| That greeted the Musician’s lay | |
| Had slowly buzzed itself away, | |
| And the long talk of Spectre Ships | |
| That followed died upon their lips | 5 |
| And came unto a natural pause, | |
| “These tales you tell are one and all | |
| Of the Old World,” the Poet said, | |
| “Flowers gathered from a crumbling wall, | |
| Dead leaves that rustle as they fall; | 10 |
| Let me present you in their stead | |
| Something of our New England earth, | |
| A tale, which, though of no great worth, | |
| Has still this merit, that it yields | |
| A certain freshness of the fields, | 15 |
| A sweetness as of home-made bread.” | |
| |
| The Student answered: “Be discreet; | |
| For if the flour be fresh and sound, | |
| And if the bread be light and sweet, | |
| Who careth in what mill’t was ground, | 20 |
| Or of what oven felt the heat, | |
| Unless, as old Cervantes said, | |
| You are looking after better bread | |
| Than any that is made of wheat? | |
| You know that people nowadays | 25 |
| To what is old give little praise; | |
| All must be new in prose and verse; | |
| They want hot bread, or something worse, | |
| Fresh every morning, and half baked; | |
| The wholesome bread of yesterday, | 30 |
| Too stale for them, is thrown away, | |
| Nor is their thirst with water slaked.” | |
| |
| As oft we see the sky in May | |
| Threaten to rain, and yet not rain, | |
| The Poet’s face, before so gay, | 35 |
| Was clouded with a look of pain, | |
| But suddenly brightened up again; | |
| And without further let or stay | |
| He told his tale of yesterday. | |
| |
