A Wholly Unscholastic Opinion
Plain hoss-sense in poetry-writin'
Would jes' knock sentiment a-kitin'!
Mostly poets is all star-gazin'
And moanin' and groanin' and paraphrasin'!
-- James Whitcomb Riley
The world is ours till sunset,
Holly and fire and snow;
And the name of our dead brother
Who loved us long ago.
The grown folk mighty and cunning,
They write his name in gold;
But we can tell a little
Of the million tales he told.
He taught them laws and watchwords,
To preach and struggle and pray;
But he taught us deep in the hayfield
The games that angels play.
Had he stayed here for ever,
Their world would be wise as ours --
And the king be cutting capers,
Adn the priest be picking flowers.
But the dark day came: they gathered:
On their faces we could see
They had taken and slain our brother,
And hanged him on a tree.
-- G.K. Chesterton