TO MY CRITICS
There are many flowers, but only
Few of them a fruit will bear,
All light seeking, but for many
Early death is all their share.
It is easy to write verses
When thou nothing hast to tell,
Like the pearls bare phrases stringing,
Word by word to rhyme them well;
But when longings, passions, tossing
Prey upon thy mind and heart,
Thou dost hear tumultuous voices,
Listening then to all thou art.
At the doors of thought all knocking,
Like the flowers for light they press,
They all want this world to enter,
Well adorned in speech’s dress.
For thy whole life’s deepest passions,
For thy suffering soul which cries,
Dost thou see the awful judges
With their cruel icy eyes?
O then on thy head so heavy
All the heaven seems to fall;
Where to find the word that fitly
Answers truth’s and beauty’s call?
