We poets must be born, cries every judge;
But prose-folks, now and then, like Strasburg geese,
Gorge themselves so inhumanly obese
On rhyming balderdash and rhythmic fudge,
That, when cleaned out, their very souls are thick
With lyric lard and greasy rhetoric.
[To Lind.
Your praise, however, I shall not forget; We'll sweep the lyre henceforward in duet.
Miss Jay.
You, Mr. Falk, are hard at work, no doubt, Here in these rural solitudes delightful, Where at your own sweet will you roam about—
Mrs. Halm [smiling]. Oh, no, his laziness is something frightful. Miss Jay.
What! here at Mrs. Halm's! that's most surprising— Surely it's just the place for poetising—
[Pointing to the right.
That summer-house, for instance, in the wood
Sequestered, name me any place that could
Be more conducive to poetic mood—
Falk.
Let blindness veil the sunlight from mine eyes,
I'll chant the splendour of the sunlit skies!
