Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/101

As easy reading as the dog-eared page
That’s fingered by said public, fifty years,
Since first taught spelling by its grandmother,
And yet a revelation in some sort:
That’s hard, my critic, Belfair! So—what next?
My critic Stokes objects to abstract thoughts;
‘Call a man, John, a woman, Joan,’ says he,
‘And do not prate so of humanities:’
Whereat I call my critic, simply Stokes.
My critic Jobson recommends more mirth,
Because a cheerful genius suits the times,
And all true poets laugh unquenchably
Like Shakspeare and the gods. That’s very hard.
The gods may laugh, and Shakspeare; Dante smiled
With such a needy heart on two pale lips,
We cry, ‘Weep rather, Dante.’ Poems are
Men, if true poems: and who dares exclaim
At any man’s door, ‘Here, ’tis probable
The thunder fell last week, and killed a wife,
And scared a sickly husband—what of that?
Get up, be merry, shout, and clap your hands,
Because a cheerful genius suits the times—’?
None says so to the man,—and why indeed
Should any to the poem? A ninth seal;
The apocalypse is drawing to a close.
Ha,—this from Vincent Carrington,—‘Dear friend,
I want good counsel. Will you lend me wings
To raise me to the subject, in a sketch
I’ll bring to-morrow—may I? at eleven?
A poet’s only born to turn to use;