His love he loved even more than fame.
Three golden tulips thrice more fair
Than other golden tulips were--
'And yet,' he smiled as he took one up,
And feasted on its yellow cup,--
'I wonder how many eggs you'd buy!
By Bacchus, I've half a mind to try!
'One golden bloom for one golden yolk--
Nay, on my word, sir, I mean no joke--
Gold for gold is fair dealing, sir.'
Think of the grocer gaping there!
Or the baker, if I went and said,
--'This tulip for a loaf of bread,
God's beauty for your kneaded grain;'
Or the vintner--'For this flower of mine
A flagon, pray, of yellow wine,
And you shall keep the change for gain.'
Ah me, on what a different earth
I and these fellows had our birth,
Strange that these golden things should be
For them so poor, so rich for me.'
Ended his sigh, the poet searched his shelf--
Seeking another poet to feed himself;
Then sadly went, and, full of shame and grief,
Sold his last Swinburne for a plate of beef.
Thus poets too, to fill the hungry maw,
Must eat each other--'tis the eternal law.
ALL SUNG
What shall I sing when all is sung,
And every tale is told,
And in the world is nothing young
That was not long since old?
Why should I fret unwilling ears
With old things sung anew,
While voices from the old dead years
Still go on singing too?
A dead man singing of his maid
Makes all my rhymes in vain,
Yet his poor lips must fade and fade,
And mine shall kiss again.
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