The great sun sinks behind the town Through a red mist of Volnay wine.... But whatâ€™s the use of setting down That glorious blaze behind the town? Youâ€™ll only skip the page, youâ€™ll look For newer pictures in this book; Youâ€™ve read of sunsets rich as mine.
A fresh wind fills the evening air With horrid crying of night birds.... But what reads new or curious there When cold winds fly across the air? Youâ€™ll only frown; youâ€™ll turn the page, But find no glimpse of your â€œNew Age Of Poetryâ€ in my worn-out words.
Must winds that cut like blades of steel And sunsets swimming in Volnay, The holiest, cruellest pains I feel, Die stillborn, because old men squeal For something new: â€œWrite something new: Weâ€™ve read this poemâ€”that one too, And twelve more like â€™em yesterdayâ€?
No, no! my chicken, I shall scrawl Just what I fancy as I strike it, Fairies and Fusiliers, and all Old broken knock-kneed thought will crawl Across my verse in the classic way. And, sir, be careful what you say; There are old-fashioned folk still like it.