Classic Poem

When his heart is growing bitter and his hair is growing grey,
And he hears the debt-collector knocking several times a day,
And the shrill voice of the Missus blame, reiterate, accuse —
Then the poet who was famous feels inclined to damn the Muse.

When he's trying to be cheerful, and the ancient joy is dead,
And where themes for laughter found him comes a brooding fit instead;
When he tries for hours to think of something good to write about,
Then the writer realizes that he's getting written out.

When the Lost Love is forgotten that he sung of when a boy,
And the Lonely Graves of Dead Girls bring no longer tears of joy;
Nor the battlefields of fancy where his fights were lost or won —
Then the singer realizes that his singing days are done.

When the visage of the landlord — or the landlady, maybe —
Can suggest not as aforetime sweetest flowers of poesy,
When the presence of the bailiff's man inspires his pen no more —
Then he's pretty well decided that his writing days are o'er.

When he thought he was beginning and the end seems come at last,
And his struggling for the future thrusts him back into the past,
When there isn't any Wonder and he hasn't any Doubt —
Then he wakes up some fine morning and he finds he's written out.

When he hears a sudden rapping — rapping at his chamber door,
Then he knows it's no good trying to write poems any more;
And he bursts from out his chamber and he grabs his battered hat,
And he cadges Two Bob somewhere and gets beered up on his pat.

Or he meets an old admirer or a chum in bardic ways
Who has other bobs and sorrows, and they drink to other days,
Till the Years Between, the Present, and the Future they forget,
And he feels convinced he hasn't even started writing yet.

But the morning! O the morning! And the weary world is grey,
And his striving for To-morrow only brings him Yesterday!
And if he had his life over, he would damn all prose and rhyme:
He'd stick to trade or business and write pomes in his spare time.