WHAT is a poet's love?-- <br />To write a girl a sonnet, <br />To get a ring, or some such thing, <br />And fustianize upon it. <br /> <br />What is a poet's fame?-- <br />Sad hints about his reason, <br />And sadder praise from garreteers, <br />To be returned in season. <br /> <br />Where go the poet's lines?-- <br />Answer, ye evening tapers! <br />Ye auburn locks, ye golden curls, <br />Speak from your folded papers! <br /> <br />Child of the ploughshare, smile; <br />Boy of the counter, grieve not, <br />Though muses round thy trundle-bed <br />Their broidered tissue weave not. <br /> <br />The poet's future holds <br />No civic wreath above him; <br />Nor slated roof, nor varnished chaise, <br />Nor wife nor child to love him. <br /> <br />Maid of the village inn, <br />Who workest woe on satin, <br />(The grass in black, the graves in green, <br />The epitaph in Latin,) <br /> <br />Trust not to them who say, <br />In stanzas, they adore thee; <br />Oh rather sleep in churchyard clay, <br />With urn and cherub o'er thee!<br /><br />Oliver Wendell Holmes<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-poet-s-lot/
