Page:Frank Owen - The Scarlett Hill, 1941.djvu/189

RV 184 (LI PO) the pleasant, fluid taste of life, he toyed with new rhythms. Bits of jade in the rough, that could be polished later or destroyed.

That wasn't good enough. It needed a line or two to round it out.

He scowled. It was pretty sentiment, but a bad poem. He'd forget it. Why repeat bad poems when he had composed so many good ones he couldn't remember them all?

With great dignity, he recited:

Now that was something like.

Abruptly his mood changed. He thought of his wife. Too bad he had ever married. He was not suited to RV 184 (184)