Page:Frogs (Murray 1912).djvu/19

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And no one thinks of me,

When all my shoulder's skinning, simply skinning.

But aren't there other pretty fellows there

All writing tragedies by tens of thousands,

And miles verboser than Euripides?

Leaves without fruit; trills in the empty air,

And starling chatter, mutilating art!

Give them one chance and that's the end of them,

One weak assault on an unprotected Muse.

Search as you will, you'll find no poet now

With grit in him, to wake a word of power.

How "grit"?

The grit that gives them heart to risk

Bold things—vast Ether, residence of God,

Or Time's long foot, or souls that won't take oaths

While tongues go swearing falsely by themselves.

You like that stuff?

Like it? I rave about it.

Why, yes; it's devilish tricky, as you say.

"Ride not upon my soul!" Use your own donkey.