Urceus Exit

Triolet

I INTENDED an Ode,
   And it turn'd to a Sonnet
It began a la mode,
I intended an Ode;
But Rose cross'd the road
   In her latest new bonnet;
I intended an Ode;
   And it turn'd to a Sonnet.

poem by Henry Austin Dobson
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Fame Is A Food That Dead Men Eat

Fame is a food that dead men eat,-
I have no stomach for such meat.
In little light and narrow room,
They eat it in the silent tomb,
With no kind voice of comrade near
To bid the banquet be of cheer.

But Friendship is a nobler thing,-
Of Friendship it is good to sing.
For truly, when a man shall end,
He lives in memory of his friend,
Who doth his better part recall,
And of his faults make funeral.

poem by Henry Austin Dobson
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The Ballad[e] Of Imitation

If they hint, O Musician, the piece that you played
Is nought but a copy of Chopin or Spohr;
That the ballad you sing is but merely 'conveyed'
From the stock of the Arnes and the Purcells of yore;
That there's nothing, in short, in the words or the score
That is not as out-worn as the 'Wandering Jew,'
Make answer-Beethoven could scarcely do more-
That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and your shade
Are simply 'adapted' from other men's lore;
That-plainly to speak of a 'spade' as a 'spade'-
You've 'stolen' your grouping from three or from four;
That (however the writer the truth may deplore),
'Twas Gainsborough painted your 'Little Boy Blue';
Smile only serenely-though cut to the core-
For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

And you too, my Poet, be never dismayed
If they whisper your Epic-'Sir Eperon d'Or'-

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Austin Dobson
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