Classic Poem

If to write, rewrite, and write again,
Bite now the lip and now the pen,
Gnash in a fury the teeth, and tear
Innocent paper or it may be hair,
In eager endless chases to pursue
That swift escaping word that would do,
Inside and out turn a phrase, o'er and o'er,
Till all the little sense goes, it had before, —
If it be these things make one a poet,
I am one — Come and all the world may know it.

If to look over old poems and detest
What one once hugged as a child to one's breast,
Find the things nothing that once had been so much,
The old noble forms gone into dust at a touch:
If to see oneself of one's fancied plumage stript,
If by one's faults as by furies to be whipt;
If to become cool and, casting for good away
All the old implements, take 'em up the next day;
If to be sane tonight and insane again tomorrow,
And salve up past pains with the cause of future sorrow, —
If to do these things make a man a poet,
I am one — Come and all the world may know it.

If nevertheless no other peace of mind,
No inward unity ever to find,
No calm, well-being, no sureness or rest
Save when by that one curious temper possest,
Out of whose kind sources in pure rhythm flow
The easy melodious verse-currents go;
If to sit still while the world goes by,
Find old friends dull and new friends dry,
Dinners a bore and dancing worse,
Compared to the tagging of verse unto verse, —
If it be these things make one a poet,
I am one — Come and all the world may know it.