Page:Complete works of Nietzsche vol 10.djvu/370

358  THE POET'S CALL. As 'neath a shady tree I sat After long toil to take my pleasure, I heard a tapping "pit-a-pat" Beat prettily in rhythmic measure. Tho' first I scowled, my face set hard, The sound at length my sense entrapping Forced me to speak like any bard, And keep true time unto the tapping. As I made verses, never stopping, Each syllable the bird went after, Keeping in time with dainty hopping! I burst into unmeasured laughter! What, you a poet? You a poet? Can your brains truly so addled be? "Yes, yes, good sir, you are a poet," Chirped out the pecker, mocking me.

What doth me to these woods entice? The chance to give some thief a trouncing? A saw, an image? Ha, in a trice My rhyme is on it, swiftly pouncing! All things that creep or crawl the poet Weaves in his word-loom cunningly. "Yes, yes, good sir, you are a poet," Chirped out the pecker, mocking me.

Like to an arrow, methinks, a verse is, See how it quivers, pricks and smarts When shot full straight (no tender mercies!) Into the reptile's nobler parts! 