When the long murmur of applause <br />That greeted the Musician's lay <br />Had slowly buzzed itself away, <br />And the long talk of Spectre Ships <br />That followed died upon their lips <br />And came unto a natural pause, <br />'These tales you tell are one and all <br />Of the Old World,' the Poet said, <br />'Flowers gathered from a crumbling wall, <br />Dead leaves that rustle as they fall; <br />Let me present you in their stead <br />Something of our New England earth, <br />A tale which, though of no great worth, <br />Has still this merit, that it yields <br />A certain freshness of the fields, <br />A sweetness as of home-made bread.' <br /> <br />The Student answered: 'Be discreet; <br />For if the flour be fresh and sound, <br />And if the bread be light and sweet, <br />Who careth in what mill 't was ground, <br />Or of what oven felt the heat, <br />Unless, as old Cervantes said, <br />You are looking after better bread <br />Than any that is made of wheat? <br />You know that people nowadays <br />To what is old give little praise; <br />All must be new in prose and verse: <br />They want hot bread, or something worse, <br />Fresh every morning, and half baked; <br />The wholesome bread of yesterday, <br />Too stale for them, is thrown away, <br />Nor is their thirst with water slaked. <br /> <br />As oft we see the sky in May <br />Threaten to rain, and yet not rain, <br />The Poet's face, before so gay, <br />Was clouded with a look of pain, <br />But suddenly brightened up again; <br />And without further let or stay <br />He told his tale of yesterday.<br /><br />Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tales-of-a-wayside-inn-part-2-interlude-iv/
