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MAIN STREET AND OTHER POEMS
THE PROUD POET (continued)
Except to pour his sorrow into little cups of song,
And the world finds in them the magic wine that his broken heart let fall.
"And these are only a couple of names from a list of a thousand score
Who have put their glory on the world in poverty and pain.
And the title of poet's a noble thing, worth living and dying for,
Though all the devils on earth and in Hell spit at me their disdain.
It is stern work, it is perilous work, to thrust your hand in the sun
And pull out a spark of immortal flame to warm the hearts of men:
But Prometheus, torn by the claws and beaks whose task is never done,
Would be tortured another eternity to go stealing fire again."
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