TO EDWARD S. MARTIN

How old, my friend, is that fine-pointed pen

Wherewith in smiling quietude you trace

The maiden maxims of your writing-place,

And on this gripped and mortal-sweating den

And battle-pit of hunger now and then

Dip out, with nice and intellectual grace,

The faultless wisdoms of a nurtured race

Of pale-eyed, pink, and perfect gentlemen!

How long have art and wit and poetry,

With all their power, been content, like you,

To gild the smiling fineness of the few,

To filmy-curtain what they dare not see,

In multitudinous reality,

The rough and bloody soul of what is true!