Once I wrote a little poem which I thought was very fine, <br />And I showed the printer’s copy to a critic friend of mine, <br />First he praised the thing a little, then he found a little fault; <br />‘The ideas are good,’ he muttered, ‘but the rhythm seems to halt.’ <br /> <br />So I straighten’d up the rhythm where he marked it with his pen, <br />And I copied it and showed it to my clever friend again. <br />‘You’ve improved the metre greatly, but the rhymes are bad,’ he said, <br />As he read it slowly, scratching surplus wisdom from his head. <br /> <br />So I worked as he suggested (I believe in taking time), <br />And I burnt the ‘midnight taper’ while I straightened up the rhyme. <br />‘It is better now,’ he muttered, ‘you go on and you’ll succeed, <br />‘It has got a ring about it—the ideas are what you need.’ <br /> <br />So I worked for hours upon it (I go on when I commence), <br />And I kept in view the rhythm and the jingle and the sense, <br />And I copied it and took it to my solemn friend once more— <br />It reminded him of something he had somewhere read before. <br /> <br />Now the people say I’d never put such horrors into print <br />If I wasn’t too conceited to accept a friendly hint, <br />And my dearest friends are certain that I’d profit in the end <br />If I’d always show my copy to a literary friend.<br /><br />Henry Lawson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-literary-friend/
