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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408928" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Sorrows of a Simple Bard</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">WHEN I tell a tale of virtue and of injured innocence,<br>Then my publishers and lawyers are the densest of the dense:<br>With the blank face of an image and the nod of keep-it-dark<br>And a wink of mighty meaning at their confidential clerk.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">(When, Oh! tell me when shall poets cease to be misunderstood?<br>When, Oh! When? shall people reckon rhymers can be any good?<br>Do their work and pay their debts and drink their pint of beer, and then,<br>Look in woman’s eyes and leave them, just like ordinary men?)</div><div style="margin:10px 0">“Is there literary friendship ’twix the sexes? don’t you think?”<br>And they wink their idiotic and exasperating wink.<br>“Can’t we kiss a clever woman without wanting any more?”<br>And their clock-work nod is only more decided than before.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But if I should hint that there’s a little woman somewhere, say,<br>Then the public and the law are interested straight away,<br>The impassive confidential gets a bright and cheerful glance—<br>Things are straightway on a footing that may lead to an advance.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Both are married and respected and they both are rising higher:<br>One’s church warden, one’s a deacon in a fashionable choir.<br>And the clerks have both unblemished private characters to show—<br>What do they know about woman? That’s what I should like to know.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">(Flash of dark eyes in the moonlight, in the scrub or far afield,<br>Blouse-sleeves back from white arms clinging—clinging while she will not yield,<br>Or the fair head on your shoulder and the grey eyes moist and mild—<br>Weary of the strife with passion, yielding like a tired child.)</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There’s my aunt; the dear old lady hints about “experience”<br>When I go to her for comfort with my injured innocence.<br>She screws up a wise expression, while she listens, for my pains—<br>Isn’t it an awful pity women haven’t any brains?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now I’m serious and angry, for it isn’t any joke—<br>Poets have been damned for ages by such evil-minded folk.<br>Must we all be public blackguards? Can’t a rhymer be a man,<br>Spite of Byron’s silly mistress—Burns’s gawky Mary Ann?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As tame bards they will not have us, and I don’t know what they want,<br>There’s my publisher and lawyer, my admirers and my aunt.<br>Do they want a rake and a spendthrift? Look out! Tradesman trusting me!<br>Look out! Husbands! Fathers! Brothers! I’ll be wicked as can be!<br>There now.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Lawson">Henry Lawson</a><div class=q>
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Then my publishers and lawyers are the densest of the dense:
With the blank face of an image and the nod of keep-it-dark
And a wink of mighty meaning at their confidential clerk.

(When, Oh! t..."></div>
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