Someone said of my poems, which were great, still

Had nothing corresponding to them in real life,

And that they were like space which couldn't be traced

To its beginning or end--once gone, it could not

Be brought back. . . Having no connexion

With one another, my poems allegedly were not akin

To the experiences of men. In addition,

That tender-hearted man compared them all

With a tree, saying, "I have a huge elm in my yard:

Its trunk swells out to a large size, but is not fit

For a carpenter to apply his line to it;

Its smaller branches are knotted and crooked,

So that neither compass nor setsquare

Can be used on it. Though planted on the wayside,

A constructor or a craftsman would not turn his head

To look at it. Your poems are great, but of no use--

All men unite in putting them away from them."

It was now my time to retort him, hence I said:

"All men put them away from them? Strange to say!

You have a large tree and are troubled

Because it is of no use--why do you not plant it

In a tract where there is nothing else but a wide

And barren space under the fierce sun at noon?

There you might saunter idly by its side,

Or in the enjoyment of untroubled ease

Since neither saw nor axe would shorten its age,

It would be standing there for good, not hurt

To cause you distress, sir?" Upon hearing that,

My pitiful opponent was inclined to agree,

As my poems started to appear nothing wild

Or incoherent to his deep-sunk oblivious eyes.