Two Stanzas For His Mother
My Dear Mother:
“How sleep the brave who sink to rest,
Far, far from the battle-fields's dreadful array,
With cheerful ease and succulent repast,
Nor ask the sun to lend his streaming ray.”
Bully, isn't it? I mean the poetry, madam, of course. Doesn't it make you feel just a little “stuck up” to think that your son is a—Bard? … Never mind the sense —sense, madam, has but little to do with poetry. [He then goes on to explain how he “patches” together lines from other poems.]
My Dear Mother:
Lo! the poor Indian, whose untutored mind,
Impels him, in order to raise the wind,
To double the pot and go it blind,
Until he's busted, you know.
I wrote the three last lines of that poem, Ma, and Daniel Webster wrote the other one—which was really very good for Daniel, considering that he wasn't a natural poet.
“How sleep the brave who sink to rest,
Far, far from the battle-fields's dreadful array,
With cheerful ease and succulent repast,
Nor ask the sun to lend his streaming ray.”
Bully, isn't it? I mean the poetry, madam, of course. Doesn't it make you feel just a little “stuck up” to think that your son is a—Bard? … Never mind the sense —sense, madam, has but little to do with poetry. [He then goes on to explain how he “patches” together lines from other poems.]
My Dear Mother:
Lo! the poor Indian, whose untutored mind,
Impels him, in order to raise the wind,
To double the pot and go it blind,
Until he's busted, you know.
I wrote the three last lines of that poem, Ma, and Daniel Webster wrote the other one—which was really very good for Daniel, considering that he wasn't a natural poet.
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