Poet's Path
My garden hath a slender path
With ivy overgrown,
A secret place where once would pace
A pot all alone;
I see him now with fretted brow,
Plunged deep in thought;
And sometimes he would write maybe,
And sometimes he would not.
A verse a day he used to say
Keeps worry from the door;
Without the stink of printer’s ink
How life would be a bore!
And so from chime of breakfast time
To supper he would beat
The pathway flat, a mossy mat
For his poetic feet.
He wrote, I’m told, of gods of old
And mythologic men;
Far better he had sung, maybe,
Of plain folks now and then;
With bitterness he would confess
Too lofty was his aim. . . .
And then with woe I saw him throw
His poems to the flame.
He went away one bitter day
When death was in the sky;
No further word I ever heard
Beyond his last goodbye.
Did battle grim take toll of him
In heaven—rocking wrath?
Oh did he write in starry flight
His name in flame on hell—brewed night?
... Well, there’s my poet’s path.
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