He casts his haughty eye upon your toils;
the warp and weft of words you've woven tight.
He revels like the devil in his spoils
and claws at every thread with raw delight,
unravelling each seam until your cloths
of heaven look like rags on beggars' backs
benibbled by a gnash of hungry moths.
He spills his ills on all your opus lacks.
The silvered weave you've spread with golden flair
through moonbeam dreams embroidered with the night,
will only prompt this gloater to declare
he wouldn't wipe his feet on such a fright.
He spurns the nightingale and Grecian urn.
The lofty Canon's far beneath his taste.
So, poet, grab your gifts before they burn
in bile that lays the very best to waste.
If weavers of silk ode succumb to scorn,
all mists and mellow fruitfulness will die.
No jocund daff will dance upon a lawn.
No Tyger, burning bright, will light an eye.
Susan Jarvis Bryant
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Susan Jarvis Bryant
would be pleased to hear them.