Postscript to a Satire on Modern English Poetry
Brooke's dead and Flecker; almost with them died
Our new-born poetry in all her pride
And one in Scyros sleeps and one at home,
Brothers dissevered by the careless foam.
Their youth bore blossoms; but an unnatural frost
Gave to them youth for ever at the cost
That neither should bear fruit nor ripen on
To fertile age beneath a kindlier sun.
Two yet we have; Hodgson and De la Mare
In that dark year relenting death did spare,
Sick of his work. Our poetry survives
And bears new fruit in those most happy lives.
Then let us cherish; and, loving them, let us learn
To leave our railing and with new songs to burn.
Our new-born poetry in all her pride
And one in Scyros sleeps and one at home,
Brothers dissevered by the careless foam.
Their youth bore blossoms; but an unnatural frost
Gave to them youth for ever at the cost
That neither should bear fruit nor ripen on
To fertile age beneath a kindlier sun.
Two yet we have; Hodgson and De la Mare
In that dark year relenting death did spare,
Sick of his work. Our poetry survives
And bears new fruit in those most happy lives.
Then let us cherish; and, loving them, let us learn
To leave our railing and with new songs to burn.
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