With fine bravado sounds the poet's claim:
"I care not when my poem's fairly writ,
Who snatches up and carries off the same,
Once made I am for ever done with it.
"I spill my silver words upon the grass,"
He cried, "because my burdened heart distills
Their scent and beauty. Then I let them pass,
The property of anyone who wills.
"I write when hot afflatus urges on
My leaping Pegasus. My soul abhors
The task of selling, like some common Jack,
Who hawks his wares among the editors."
There's ramping in the kitchen, ugly swears
Along the passage, and the roarings run
About the drawing-room, and up the stairs --
"The boss has lost a sonnet what he done!"
First published in The Bulletin, 25 January 1923
