Classic Poem

When all my searching fails to find
A balance in my mental bank,
Or when, to coin a phrase, my mind
Is blank;

I hesitate to put in print
The state of the poetic purse,
As hodiernal poets hint
In verse.

And when the thought seems weak and slight,
I hesitate to seek renown
By voicing it. I hate to write
It down.

I hesitate to write as do
These bards that have nor aim nor goal,
To bare exultingly my pseu-
Do soul.

I hate the candid bards who tell
Details of all the dull affairs
Of dailiness. What of it? Well,
Who cares?

I hate the bards whose metric prose
Tells me the things I know are true;
They feel, they say. I say: Suppose
They do?

What of it? Often, I recall,
These were the words that I would shout:
" I do not get it. What's it all
About? "

Contempt I have, and Scorn is mine;
Ay, Hate herself possesses me
At each unworthy verse and line
I see.

The bard that all too often sings
Without his notes, and every day,
Would better wait till he has things
To say.

I hesitate to print the rhymes
That show my thoughts are thin and few,
If any ... But ... how many times I do!