Classic Poem

Come, gentlemen, ladies, masters,
Come to the sale of these effects!
Come in all your pride, come with adornment and blare:
These were the belongings of a singer, and they must be sold for cash.
Now you are assembled, now you are ready with notebook and purse,
I will submit to you the wares of the dead poet,
By whose will the world is offered unpriced spoil.
Here, then, is his dream — what do you bid?
Nothing? Will no one have it at any price?
Why do you laugh? Did you come expecting to find the customary baubles?
You are connoisseurs: what do you think of this dream?
It must be worth much money. Why, he died for it.
And still you are silent?
Here are his hopes, too — the spare substance of many a meal,
Here are debts of faith, here are receipts for unpaid credits,
Here are his long nights of unrequited slavery,
Here are writs of dispossession and annals of his defeats,
Here are deeds of cloud lots and liens upon heaven,
Here are promises of gods and deridings of men.
What rare property it does all make! — and still you do not bid.
What does it mean, gentlemen, ladies, masters?
Not one to bid where so much may be bought?
You would not buy this man in his life — I thought you would buy him in his death.
No? Well, the judges somewhere judge — I do not:
I check off all these effects for heaven — let them ascend with their owner:
These would have made you free.
Come tomorrow again, gentlemen, ladies, masters —
Tomorrow — come with full purses:
I will have tomorrow such attractions in bonds, rivets, fetters, chains,
That all may purchase and all go home satisfied.